Six Feet Under
by Kineil D. Wicks
Summary: Call them displaced entities. Say they're out of phase with our reality. But please, whatever you do, don't call them ghosts; that just offends Wilson as a scientist. The guy they hired to get the yuppies out of their house doesn't help matters either. Don't Starve rewrite of Beetlejuice.
1. The Roommate

**Welcome, ladies and gentlemen, to the next** ** _Don't Starve_** **movie rewrite, this time of the Tim Burton film** ** _Beetlejuice_** **! Say it once, say it twice, third time's the charm—**

 **I start getting into a Halloween-y mood about this time of year, which is good, because by my calculations, I have to start posting this now to have it done by Halloween. Updates are Tuesdays, Thursdays, and Saturdays, and fewer worries with this one, seeing as how I have all but the last few chapters written up. Good things. Of course, because of this, the first several chapters are a couple of years old and not as polished as my writing generally is at this point so…bear with me.**

 **Like with other** ** _Don't Starve_** **rewrites, we're drawing heavily from the game while still referencing the movie, complete with characters from the movie. We still have the main characters playing the characters from the movie—three guesses who gets to play Beetlejuice. :)**

 **So, without further ado—** ** _it's showtime!_**

 ** _Don't Starve_** **© 2013 Klei Entertainment**

 ** _Beetlejuice_** **© 1988 Tim Burton**

It started in the most appropriate way, Wilson felt: completely unexpected.

Precisely two years ago, Wilson Percival Higgsbury had put an ad in the paper for a roommate. It wasn't for any special reason; he would have been perfectly fine puttering along by himself in the nice house on the hill outside the charming town of Shanter, working on his science and listening to his records and his radio.

Unfortunately, he couldn't afford the house by himself on his salary, he continually forgot to buy groceries, and—as the annoying real estate lady was fond of dropping in and reminding him—the house was way too big for just himself.

So it was with great trepidation that he put the following ad in the _Shanter Sentential_ :

 _One Wilson Percival Higgsbury respectfully requests an experiment-roommate to lodge within 2013 Klei Avenue (the white house on the hill). Roommates are expected to assist with rent and groceries. Those with aversions to science, loud unexpected noises, and/or 78 rpm music need not apply._

Wilson, however, did not expect to get any replies. Not only was he unsure of his wording in his quest for a tolerable roommate (he honestly had not expected the paper to _retain_ his deletion), but quite a few people within Shanter Town were of the opinion that that particular house was haunted. It offended him as a scientist to even have that _suggested_ to him.

And so, he was not expecting the phone to ring one glorious science-filled afternoon.

It was with great difficulty that he extricated himself from his experiment and stumbled over to the wall-mounted phone. He snatched up the earpiece and barked an irritated _"What?_ " into the mouthpiece.

" _Please tell me this isn't the white house on the hill."_

Wilson blinked, but allowed his ire to return. "It is. What do you want?"

" _2013 Klei Avenue?"_

"Yes. Is there going to be a point to this conversation, or should I hang up now?"

 _"I was calling about the roommate opening, but if this is the reaction I'm going to get—"_

"What?" Wilson blurted, and then slapped himself in the head. " _Oh,_ the _roommate!_ I'm terribly sorry—I quite literally forgot all about it."

There was an indignant noise at the other end of the line. Oh boy—the first caller for this he ever got and he had already alienated them. "Um, I don't suppose you'd…still like to see the house?"

There was an irritated huff at the other end, but whoever finally said:

 _"I'll be there around two."_

* * *

Wilson had been grateful for the hour of cleaning he had been able to squeeze in. He even managed to make some tea while he was at it.

He had then proceeded to be surprised when he went out on the porch and saw a young woman coming up the drive.

"You're not the person interested in the room, are you?" he blurted, before he could stop himself.

"You're not the idiot who answered the phone, are you?" she shot back.

Wilson flushed red; he didn't have a response to that. "Well, ah…I suppose…." He waved her in to put a stop to the stammering. "Won't you come in?"

She flounced by him. Wilson resisted slapping himself upside the head and followed her in.

Tea was served, introductions were made; her name was Willow Burnshigh, and she disliked him immensely.

She was about a head shorter than Wilson and perhaps a half-a-dozen years younger, with a similar dark shade of hair and similar pale shade of skin. She was wearing a ruddy red blouse and black skirt, hose, and shoes. Her hair was tied in pigtails and her face wore a look of resignation.

"If this is how the entire tour is going to go, then I must inform you that there _are_ other lodgings in town," Wilson said testily.

"Actually, there isn't," Willow informed him. "Otherwise, I wouldn't even be here."

Wilson gritted his teeth and bore it. There was no choice, apparently.

He gave one of the fastest house tours known to man (with the exception of the attic—that was _his_ , no ifs ands or buts), and was pleased to see her panting from the exertion. "Well, if you find this place isn't to your liking, then might I recommend not moving just yet?" Wilson suggested.

"Tough, star-head," Willow snapped. "I'm going to the boarding school in town—I need a place to stay, so I guess we're stuck with each other."

"No we are not—I have the right to refuse—"

"This offer was sitting on the market for three months—you can't afford to be chintzy, and unfortunately neither can I." She picked up the suitcase she had deposited in the living room and marched up the steps. "Like it or not, lame-brain, you've got a roommate."

"My name is _Wilson Percival Higgsbury,_ thank you very much!" he yelled after her.

He groaned and sank into the nearest available chair the minute she was gone.

What was he going to do?

* * *

For the first month or so, they studiously avoided each other.

This made little things like meals a problem, but Wilson had solved that by installing a little refrigerator in the attic. An attic in which he was being as noisy as he possibly could.

"Could you keep it down?" she would yell at least once a day. "You sound like a ghoul up there!"

"And you sound like a witch down there!" he would shout back.

It gave Wilson great pleasure the first week or so, before he had a chance to verify her story. Yes, he really _was_ her only choice in the whole town. The boarding school had apparently maxed its occupation. This led to Wilson focusing on simply avoiding her. She'd leave come the holiday.

Except when it came round, she didn't leave.

"Don't you have someplace to be?" he asked her, probably the first sentence he had spoken to her in a month.

"Don't you?" she shot back.

That served as their full interaction for another month, until a summer storm knocked out their electricity.

 _That_ was fun.

Wilson was in the basement holding a flashlight in his teeth and trying to fix the electricity whilst fighting off Willow and her lighter trying to do the same thing. There was a lot of fighting before either of them realized that the electricity was out over the whole town, and that they weren't getting any light that night.

Willow demonstrated her proficiency with fire by going out to the back, making a small fire pit, and cooking some hot dogs over them.

It took Wilson an hour to get over his pride, grab a lawn chair, and go out and sit by the fire.

"What do _you_ want?" Willow groused.

"A Nobel prize and scientific acclaim," Wilson declared. "In the meantime, I'll settle for a hot dog on a stick."

More grumbling, but eventually she provided one.

Wilson let it toast for a bit before trying to break the silence.

"So what do _you_ want?" he asked.

" _Huh?"_

"I've realized," he declared. "That we've been roommates for nearly half a year, and yet we've hardly spoken a civil word to each other. And to be frank, I'm sick of it." He took a deep breath. "I…I formally apologize for my reaction and continued behavior towards you."

She stared at him for a beat. "You were _that_ hungry, huh?"

"No," Wilson said, a little frustrated. "It's just…I'm quite used to not talking to anyone, but not when there's someone in the _house_ —and frankly, it offends me as a gentleman to continue in such a vein."

She made a dissatisfied noise and glared at the ground between her feet.

More silence.

"I'm…sorry too," she said finally. "I guess we've both been stupid."

"I guess."

They spent the night out there, talking and feeding the fire and moving on to marshmallows once all the hot dogs were gone. She had gone to the finishing school to get away from her home town, where she would always have the stigma and the glare from her numerous foster families. He had moved there to practice his science away from disapproving eyes. She liked The Who, Deep Purple, and Caro Emerald. He liked CCR, Three Dog Night, and Harry Belafonte. They both liked cheesy monster movies.

It was about noon the next day when Wilson—rubbing his eyes and rolling his neck—noticed the house lights were back on. "Oh, how about that—we appear to have electricity again."

"Goody," she noised; she had ceased to make proper intelligible sentences after about three.

"I suppose we should go back in now," Wilson opined, years of sleepless nights enabling him to still be alert. He looked back at her. "Willow?"

He got up and snapped his fingers in front of her; she was asleep.

Wilson shrugged; well, she probably wasn't used to keeping late nights.

He carefully scooped her up; instantly regretted it when he realized he wasn't fit to lift a hundred pounds, but managed to get her to the couch. No need to let her get sunburnt or waterlogged.

After that, they became tolerant of each other, and then friendly, actually eating meals with each other and dancing to records in the living room and watching movies late at night and going to town together to get groceries and discussing myriad subjects as he worked on his experiments in the attic and she played with the model town he had painstakingly made….

And then when he realized that it was coming up on that precise date, two years later, that they met, Wilson decided to do something spectacular, touching, and just a bit insane.

He was going to ask Miss Willow Burnshigh to marry him.


	2. The Crash

**Chapter 2, everybody! Which is actually Chapters 2 and 3 as they were originally drafted, but that would have had the chapters run too short—I'm trying to keep them around three pages/two thousand words so they're not short blurbs, but also aren't incredibly long and hard to keep your place on (I've said it before and I'll say it again: Marvel has done research on how many pages of a digital comic a person can read and when, and it's usually about three pages on the bus or something like that).**

 **In other news, have a reference to the _Dick Van Dyke Show_ , with Chester guest-starring. :)**

 ** _Don't Starve_** **© 2013 Klei Entertainment**

 ** _Beetlejuice_** **© 1988 Tim Burton**

Willow was of the opinion that Wilson was acting weirdly.

Granted, this was nothing new. He'd go wandering around the house with his pen and pad, scribbling down notes and muttering to himself, the fact that he had lived in that house for years and knew its layout by heart the only thing that kept him from bumping into the walls. As it was, Willow delighted in rearranging the furniture when he wasn't looking—he kept tripping over one fuzzy orange ottoman (which she had fondly dubbed "Chester") over and over and over again, each time glaring back at the object as though it had moved on its own.

So, when he locked himself in his "office" on the second floor and wouldn't let her in, she just figured he was working on some new science-y thing. That chowderhead would come out eventually.

She smirked, knowing _just_ the thing that would lure him out.

She went over to the record player and started sorting through the records.

* * *

Wilson checked the tiny box on his desk for precisely the hundredth time that day.

"Okay, that's still there," he muttered, eyeing the gold ring and the paltry gem set in it. A ruby, not a diamond—and barely a chip, not a stone—but she _did_ like red….

"Okay, checklist," he muttered, going through his hastily scribbled list. Romantic dinner, and he was going to have it all set up by Willow's old fire pit out back…he was missing something—what?

Harry Belafonte's "Jump in the Line" started playing.

Ah, that was it—figuring a way to get Willow out of the house. Why, why, _why_ had she graduated finishing school? And she wasn't due to start work until _next_ week, which was past the right date, and he really wanted to do this before he lost his nerve or talked himself out of it—

Wilson thumped his head against his desk in exasperation. Why did this sort of thing look so _easy_ on the telly?

Okay. He could do this. He was a scientist. He was intelligent. He could figure out how to do this. He _could_.

Now for the simple task of sneaking around Willow.

* * *

Willow was dancing in the living room, waiting for the inevitable loud creak that came from the door of Wilson's office.

It came, followed by very rapid footsteps.

Willow glanced over to see Wilson practically running down the steps, stuffing notes into his pockets.

"I have to run into town to get something be back later bye," he blurted, so fast it sounded like one long word.

"I'm coming with you, then," Willow said, dashing into the kitchen and grabbing the grocery list.

"What? No!" Wilson blurted. "I'm not going to be gone _that_ long—"

"And if I don't go with you, you'll forget something and have to go dashing back out." Willow tapped him on the head with the list. "Sorry, Charlie—you may be a 'brilliant gentleman scientist', but when it comes to everyday life, you're lucky that you can put one foot in front of the other."

She flounced out the door, leaving him with that consternated look on his face.

"Well, come on!" She called back. "Let's go, so you can get back to your important scientific duties!"

* * *

What a mess.

Wilson drove to town, in a funk. Of course Willow wanted to go with him—they always went together, for the precise reason Willow had stated. Of course his attempt at going alone had met with failure.

But it was an important date. Willow would claim that it wasn't, but it was. He had been to enough "shindigs", trying to curry funding for his science, to know that women valued that sort of thing. They liked it when their husbands remembered those dates. And he was _going_ to start things off right, by golly!

"Wilson?"

"Hmm?" Wilson noised, glancing over at Willow. "What is it?"

"When, precisely, did you move from England to here?"

Wilson thought about it. "I think I was eight. Why?"

"Because in America, we drive on the _right_ side of the road."

Wilson made a strangled sort of noise and steered back onto the proper side of the road, flushing furiously and deeply grateful that no one else was on the quiet country road.

"What's the new scientific breakthrough this time?" Willow asked, with an air of longsuffering.

Wilson grimaced, but took the out she unwittingly provided. "It's top secret—"

"They always are."

"This one is especially so."

Willow made a _tsk_ ing noise in the back of her throat.

"And…it's especially important that I return to it at once," Wilson said slowly, sensing a way to ditch Willow temporarily. "So perhaps—just this once—you do the grocery shopping whilst I gather my scientific materials—"

"Honestly," Willow noised. "You're such a— _Wilson! Look out!"_

Wilson yelped in alarm as something ran out in the road, twisting the wheel and mashing on the brakes—

The car swerved, striking the side of the covered bridge and crashing through to the other side.

* * *

Wilson shoved the door open, Willow leaning heavily on his arm.

"I can't believe I wrecked the car," he said hollowly.

"I can," Willow noised, kicking the door shut once they were in. "I was there. Maybe I should drive from now on."

"Probably wise," Wilson said, walking by the living room.

He stopped.

"I'm going to bed," Willow announced. "But first, I'm getting the heating blanket—I'm freezing, and my arm is numb—why did you stop?"

Wilson pointed. "Oh, great! A fire!" Willow exclaimed, going over to stand by the fireplace.

Wilson followed at a subdued pace. "I don't remember this being lit when we left," he said slowly.

Willow had been rubbing her hands and holding them to the fire, but ceased and looked at him sharply. "What do you mean?"

"I mean I don't—Willow! Watch your hands!"

He yanked her back from the fire, examined her hands for burn marks—

The tips of her fingers were on fire.

"Cool," Willow noised, visibly happier. Good. At least one of them were.

Wilson blew her fingers out. "Aww," she groaned, but he was too busy checking her fingertips. No burns. Nothing. Her fingers weren't even pink.

He let go and she started rubbing her hands together, as though it were just now starting to sink in. "Maybe…maybe I ought to make some tea or something," she muttered.

"No," Wilson said, putting a hand on her shoulder and holding her there. "Let's just take this really slow—do you remember how we got home?"

Willow opened her mouth, froze, closed it with a look of consternation on her face.

Wilson headed for the door. "I'm going to retrace our steps—maybe there's something we—"

"Wait! Wilson!"

He opened the door and stepped out—

To a world that was not his own.

He knew this instinctively, from the hollow feeling in the pit of his stomach. His eyes confirmed this: wherever he was, it most decidedly was _not_ outside the house on the hill outside of Shanter.

The ground was too flat, the trees too uniform, the air too _still_. This place…it was…sinister, somehow.

He heard baying, backed up frantically—

Felt a hand on his shoulder—

Wilson shrieked in alarm as he was yanked back—

Into the house.

Instantly, it was like a heavy blanket had been ripped off of him. He breathed in sharply, glancing around to assure himself that yes, he _was_ home—

Willow was eyeing him with concern.

"Where have you been?" she asked. "You stepped outside and it was like you vanished!"

"You," Wilson gasped, grasping at her arm, then her shoulder, as though to tether himself to her and the house. "Will not _believe_ where I've been. I stepped outside…." He stopped, the reality of what he was about to say hitting him hard. "Into another world," he finished slowly. "I walked outside…into a place that wasn't Shanter. But that's impossible!"

"Well, while you're at it," Willow said, grabbing his arm and pulling him into the living room. "While you were gone, I looked around the house—"

"Wait," Wilson asked, feeling his eyebrows furrow. "How long was I gone?"

"About an hour."

Wilson felt like someone had hit him in the stomach. "But that's impossible!" he repeated.

"Let's add to that," Willow said, picking up her lighter, where she had left it on the mantle. "Look at this."

She held it up in front of the mirror and moved it around. Wilson watched.

"Are you looking?" she asked.

"Yes…." Wilson said slowly, unsure what she was wanting him to see.

"At the _mirror_ , idiot!"

Wilson huffed and turned to the mirror.

He wasn't there.

Neither was Willow, although she was waving the lighter in front of it. In the mirror, the lighter floated maniacally through the air.

Wilson may have made a small noise, the sound of yet another gut-punch. "There's that," Willow said, putting the lighter down and turning him around. "And then there's that."

She pointed at a book on that annoying furry orange ottoman.

Wilson blinked, not recognizing the binding. He picked it up gingerly, as though it would snap open and bite him. Still cautious, he held it at arm's length and read the title.

" _'Handbook for the Recently Diseased,'"_ he read.

"'Deceased,'" Willow corrected.

"' _Deceased'?"_ Wilson repeated.

"Wilson?" Willow asked, in a tremulous voice. She swallowed before continuing.

"I don't think we survived that crash," she squeaked.

And that made gut-punch number three.

* * *

Wilson lay in his bed, a pointless action, he thought.

No, no—it _wasn't_ a pointless action. He was dreaming. He'd wake up. He just dreamt the whole day's events.

So why wasn't he waking up?

He slapped himself hard to jostle awake.

"Ow," he moaned, rolling to a sitting position. Well, he wasn't sleeping—but now his jaw ached.

He rubbed his jaw, pondering. So if—and this was a big _if_ —he did just die that afternoon, did that mean he was dead and could still feel pain? That was—that was downright _unfair_ , that's what it was.

And it was his fault.

He moved from rubbing his jaw to rubbing his forehead. He shouldn't have let himself get distracted. He shouldn't have let Willow go with him. He shouldn't have—

"Wilson?"

He looked to see Willow standing in the doorway, holding her pillow and her teddy. "Can't sleep?" she asked.

He shook his head. "What are you doing?" he asked.

She blushed, but edged away from the hall, as though afraid the dark would somehow reach out and grab her. "Can…I feel silly for asking…can I sleep with you tonight? I don't feel…I don't want to be by myself."

Wilson stood and pulled back the covers on one side, letting her get in without a fuss. He momentarily debated on sleeping on the floor, but crawled back into his usual side, making sure to be as far away from her as possible, so they didn't touch.

"So…." Willow noised. "How are you taking this?"

"What? You being in my bed?" Wilson asked, pulling the covers up to his chin.

"Being… _recently deceased."_

"I think someone is going to great pains to play an elaborate joke on us," he replied. "And tomorrow I'm going to get to the bottom of this once and for all."

Willow made a small noise. And then….

"What if it's not a joke?"

Wilson lifted his head to look at her. " _Huh?"_

"What if it isn't a joke and we're really…."

"Don't say it," Wilson chided, laying his head back down. "We'll be fine. We will."

Willow made another small noise, but didn't argue. Wilson doubted he had convinced her. He hadn't even convinced _himself_.

Secretly, he was glad she had come; he didn't want to be by himself either.

So, when she rolled over to be next to him, he didn't say anything. And when at around three she began sobbing uncontrollably, he scootched over so she could cry into his shoulder.


	3. The Movers and Shakers

**Chapter 3, everybody! And during the past couple of days I've been restructuring the chapters so they're of decent length, which reduced the number of chapters, which means we'll be switching to a Tuesday-Saturday schedule for the foreseeable future. In other news, meet the Deetzes! And Otho.**

 **I think it must have been from watching HGTV for years, because when Mom and I rewatched this movie recently, we…actually understood where Otho and Delia were coming from, what they were saying, and picked out bits and pieces of the refurbished house that we liked—some of it was too much, like the graphite-patterned walls and railing, but for the most part…we liked it. :D**

 **Also referencing one of the earlier drafts of the script for** ** _Beetlejuice,_** **in which the scenery changed every time the Maitlands tried to flee the house. In addition, we have a reference to another Tim Burton film,** ** _The Nightmare Before Christmas,_** **which Charles quotes; and Kafka's _The Metamorphosis,_ which is a very weird read any way you slice it. And Willow references the ****_Casper_** **movie by calling the Deetzes fleshies. :D**

 ** _Don't Starve_** **© 2013 Klei Entertainment**

 ** _Beetlejuice_** **© 1988 Tim Burton**

 _"Gaah!"_

Willow's sharp exclamation, followed by a _thump_ , jolted Wilson out of a troubled sleep. He glanced around to see Willow on the floor, rubbing her hip.

"Did you fall out of bed?" he asked, concerned.

"I guess so," she muttered, putting a hand on the bed to stand up.

She froze.

"Did you hear that?" she asked.

Wilson listened; recognized the noise. "It's a car coming up the drive."

They bolted for the window overlooking the drive.

Someone had come out of the car, dressed in black and pulling a sign out of the back of the car.

"Hey, that's Jane!" Wilson said suddenly, recognizing the woman.

"Who?" Willow asked.

"She's the realtor who sold me the house!" He flung open the window and stuck his head out. "Jane! _Jane! Look up here!"_

The realtor simply stuck the _for sale_ sign in the yard and headed back to the car.

"Maybe she didn't hear me," he muttered.

"Forget this!" Willow said, running out of the room.

"Wait—where are you going?"

"After her—or at least getting rid of that sign!"

"Willow!" Wilson yelped, running after her. "Wait for me! You don't know what's out there—"

She ran down the steps, Wilson hot on her heels, and out the door—

" _Yipes!"_

 _"Eeek!"_

Wilson sincerely hoped he had been the one to go 'yipes'—in the meantime, he clasped his hands on Willow's shoulders and pulled her close, ready to protect her at a moment's notice.

Again, it wasn't the hill outside of Shanter.

But the scenery had changed again.

Now it was swamplike, sucking at their ankles as mosquitoes as big as Wilson's hand buzzed around. Spiky trees grew crookedly out of the murk, and beyond them were fishy bipedal creatures—

Said fishy bipedal creatures spotted them and shrieked, running towards them with arms up and out—

"Willow! Get back inside!" Wilson yelped, spinning her around and shoving her back to their door, there with the steps hanging impossibly on nothing. She bolted up the steps, him fast behind her as the monster closed in—

And then they were back in, and Wilson spun around and slammed the door, locking it for good measure.

"What _was_ that?" Willow wailed.

"I…I don't know," Wilson replied truthfully. It had felt like that world he had been in the _last_ time he had left the house, but the scenery was so different….

The realization of what happened began to sink in.

"We can't leave the house, can we?" Willow asked slowly.

"We don't know that yet," Wilson said hastily. "Not until we try every possible way out."

* * *

Several hours and all the doors and windows later, Wilson had come to the unfortunate conclusion that yes, they _were_ stuck in the house.

"I don't get it," he muttered, untying the rope he had wrapped around his waist so he wouldn't get lost. "I just don't get it."

Willow flung the other end of the rope away. "I can't believe it! We can't leave the house at all! We can't even go to the garage!"

"Well, we didn't try _every_ way out," Wilson posed. "I could try climbing up the chimney—"

He faltered at her stare. "Yeah, I didn't think it was such a good idea either," he muttered.

Willow grabbed a pillow and shoved it into her face. Wilson was fairly sure he heard a muffled scream come from her.

When she finished, she sighed and flopped the pillow away. "So now what?" she asked.

Wilson glanced around, seeking an answer.

He picked up the _Handbook for the Recently Deceased_.

"I suppose I could catch up on my reading," he mused.

* * *

Wilson was vaguely aware of Willow batting at some cobwebs in the eaves. They seemed to have multiplied exponentially since…that happened.

Wilson, meanwhile, was still in his recliner by the window in the attic, feet propped up on that ugly orange ottoman, where he had been for the past several days. He had paused to peek through the binoculars Willow had provided and observe their funeral (he still wasn't sure about that), but for the most part, he had kept busy trying to figure out the handbook.

"Well? How's it going?" Willow asked.

"Horribly," Wilson replied. "This thing reads like stereo instructions. Nothing's in order, the wording is horrible….I'm surprised it's in English."

"Well if you find anything useful, let me know," Willow said, flopping down onto a nearby settee, which she had long joked hid large bugs. "And if it says how to get out of the house and to the garage, let me know _immediately_ —the vacuum's over there and I can't keep up with the dust."

"Cabin fever?" Wilson asked.

"What do _you_ think?" she sat up, as though struck with an idea. "Say, what happens if I set the house on fire? Do you think we'd be able to leave _then?_ "

"I'd think we'd be sitting in a pile of ash and rubble," Wilson replied. "Here's something: _hauntings may vary from manifestation to manifestation_ —well _that's_ maddeningly unhelpful," he muttered, snapping the book shut.

Another slam sounded.

They looked at each other, then bolted for the window.

"Who is _that?"_ Willow asked.

"Good question," Wilson muttered, eyeing the blonde man, the redheaded woman, and the young blonde girl. A pudgy man extricated himself from a car further down the drive and followed them to the door.

Willow and Wilson looked at each other.

"Oh. Oh _no_."

* * *

Charles Deetz walked in and deposited his suitcase, enjoying the way it _clunk_ ed against the wooden floor. He took a deep breath and then exhaled, completely at peace for once. Peace, quiet…a man could hear himself think out here.

"Isn't this place wonderful?" he asked, turning to his wife and daughter. "It couldn't be _more_ wonderful!"

Delia Deetz walked by him, eyeing the foyer critically. Her expression didn't change once she got to the living room. "Some gasoline, a blowtorch," he heard her mutter. "It's fixable."

He sighed and turned to his daughter, Wendy. "Well, honey? What do you think?"

Wendy looked around from underneath her black hat and veil. "Delia hates it," she said slowly. "I could live with it."

"Good! Two out of three—you're outvoted, dear—" he said, turning to Delia—

Just in time to see a fat guy crawl through a window much too small for him.

" _Dear!"_ Charles hollered, attracting Delia's attention. When she turned, he pointed at the man entering the house through such unconventional means.

"Oh, Otho!" Delia exclaimed, clapping her hands slightly. "Why didn't you come through the door? It'd be much easier."

"It'd be bad luck," the fat man said, standing up with a huff and straightening his suit.

" _Dear_ ," Charles said, crossing over to her. "Who is this?" he asked, trying to be calm.

"This is Otho," Delia said, as though that solved everything. "He's an interior designer—he'll be helping me with the house."

"Trust me, it needs it," Otho said, voice and scan of the house both methodical. "You're lucky the yuppies are buying condos, Charles, so you can afford what I'll have to do to this place."

" _What?_ " Charles asked, stunned. "Wait—I thought we agreed that when I bought the place it was fine as is," he said to his wife.

"Well, you keep telling yourself that while the rest of us work," Delia said, tweaking his nose before she went off with Otho.

"But we agreed it was fine! Oh, _come on!_ Does no one in this house want it to stay as is?" Charles asked, tilting his head up so his exclaimed question would echo.

He could have sworn he heard two _Yes_ es in response.

* * *

"This is awful. This is absolutely _awful."_

"Calm down, Wilson," Willow chided, bracing herself against the second-floor railing and watching fatso and ginger talk. "We'll think of something."

"We must have been very bad in a previous life," Wilson continued, glaring at the group; if looks could kill, those three would be floating right now. "To deserve these people trying to move in on us. I mean, _look_ at that one! He can't even use a perfectly good _door!_ "

"To be fair, he doesn't look like he could _fit_ through the door."

"But the _window?"_

"People are weird."

Wilson was massaging his face, obviously trying to come to grips with this new wrinkle.

"I hope the realtor wasn't in charge of our funeral," Willow mused, a thought striking her.

"What?" Wilson asked, obviously floored. "What kind of question is that?"

"Well, think about it," she said. "She sold the _house_ out from under us this quick—she'd probably sell the graves just as fast."

"Firstly, I thought we agreed—we are _not dead!_ " Wilson stormed. "Secondly—to be fair—she was making offers on this house right after I moved in."

"She didn't want you owning the house?"

"Not after she realized I wasn't about to marry and have kids."

Willow blinked; Wilson had made a weird face right after saying that, but had squelched it quickly. What was with that?

"More pressing matters first," Willow decided, letting the matter rest for now. "We've got to stop those yutzes _somehow._ "

"Does no one in this house want it to stay as is?" the sandy-haired man exclaimed from downstairs.

 _"Yes!"_ Wilson and Willow answered at once.

The man blinked, but shook his head and walked off—probably to stop ginger and tubbo.

"Do you think he heard us?" Willow asked.

"I doubt it," Wilson said, scowling. "That infernal _book_ said that…." He trailed off, like he didn't want to say _precisely_ what it said. "That most people wouldn't be able to see…us."

Willow thought about it. There had to be something, something she was missing….

"That's it!" Willow exclaimed, jumping up in glee.

"What's it?" Wilson asked, staring at her blankly.

"Wilson!" she touched his arms and brought her hands down until she was holding his hands, barely able to contain her glee. "There's a word for people in our situation: _ghosts!"_

She would have to figure out a word for the expression Wilson had on his face—it was confused and sick and upset and angry all rolled into a comical wrap. " _What?"_ he said flatly. Even _that_ made her laugh.

"Come on," she said, tugging him and turning him and then letting go so she could skip down the steps. "Let's go scare some fleshies!"

"I can't be a ghost!" Wilson exclaimed finally, finally finding his voice. "It's against all scientific possibilities!"

He spluttered along in this vein for a few more moments, making Willow collapse in a heap of nervous laughter, before he finally and unintentionally delivered the kicker.

 _"I offend myself as a scientist!"_ Wilson wailed.


	4. The Advert

**Chapter 4, everybody! In which our intrepid heroes are hiding out in the attic….**

 **For a joke, I had the radio station as 201.3, in reference to the year in which** ** _Don't Starve_** **came out. Looked it up—there really is a 201.3 station, an internet radio station that broadcasts from New Mexico. Go figure.**

 ** _Don't Starve_** **© 2013 Klei Entertainment**

 ** _Beetlejuice_** **© 1988 Tim Burton**

A little over an hour later, Wilson was of the opinion that they were absolutely rubbish at this.

Granted, his heart wasn't exactly in it (whatever _it_ was), but Willow had been enthusiastic and had tried her absolute best.

But no matter what they tried, Charles, Delia, and Otho just didn't react.

And worse, Delia and Otho were systematically tearing their house apart.

"This is _awful!"_ Willow wailed. They were back in Wilson's office, and Charles was sitting at Wilson's desk, reading a magazine and completely oblivious to them.

Willow waved her hands in front of Charles, who didn't even bat an eye. "What good is being a ghost if you can't scare people away?" she asked.

"I told you, I don't think we're ghosts," Wilson said.

"What, then?"

"I think perhaps we've been shifted out of this dimension's phase just slightly—so we're still here and alive, but no one can see us."

She stared at him. "Yeah. That makes _so_ much more sense."

Wilson sighed and redirected his attention to Charles, who was fishing in the desk's drawers.

He pulled out a small box—

 _"No!"_ Wilson yelped, slapping the box out of his hand.

Charles yelped in alarm as the box clattered to the ground and tumbled beneath a cabinet.

"Woah!" Willow exclaimed. "Slapping works—that was great. How did you do that?"

Wilson blinked, looking at how horrified Charles was, rubbing his hand. "I…I don't know."

"Can you do it again?"

"I don't know."

Delia and Otho entered the office. "Ugh, how awful," Delia noised.

"Hey! Now wait a minute," Charles yelped, looking up at them. "I thought we agreed that this was _my_ room!"

"No, it's _my_ room," Wilson groused. "And you're sitting at _my_ desk."

"Besides, I know what you're doing, and you're not going to get away with it!"

"Charles," Delia said, all mock-sweetness. "I love you. I supported you during your nervous breakdown. I followed you out to Hicksville. But I _must_ express myself. If you don't let me gut out this house and make it my own, I will _go insane, and I will take you with me!"_

Wilson, Willow, and Charles stared. "Okay," Charles said finally. "But…can't you leave _this_ room?"

Delia sighed, as though he had asked her to crack her chest open and scoop her heart out with a spoon. "I suppose so…so long as you keep this door shut."

"I'm gonna get her," Willow announced. "I don't know how, or how long it's going to take, but I am going to _get_ her."

"I'll help you hide the body," Wilson said.

"Is this the last room?" Otho asked. "We can start calculating the cost."

"Ooh, I forgot!" Delia said, pointing up. "There's an attic—"

Wilson yelped in alarm. "I forgot to lock the attic!"

"We can knock it out so we have vaulted ceilings—"

"Don't just stand there!" Willow yelped, shooing him away.

Wilson ran pell-mell up the stairs, shoving Delia and Otho aside, barreling through the door, and slamming it shut, locking the door and leaning against it for good measure.

They shoved against the door, but Wilson braced himself and hoped the lock didn't break.

"Do you have a key to this door?" he heard Otho ask.

"I think the realtor has one," Delia said.

"We ought to get it—I have a feeling that there's something important behind this door."

"Yeah," Delia said, voice filled with sarcasm. "It's the people who died here and they want us _out_ of here!"

"You have no idea," Wilson muttered.

"So let's humor them—besides, we have colors to discuss."

Wilson waited until the stairs ceased their creaking before heaving a sigh of relief.

What were they going to do? If they couldn't drive these people off….

No. There had to be a way.

* * *

"Remember when you first moved here?"

"Yes," Willow noised, still watching the activity out the window. "Why?"

"When I put that ad out— _these_ were the sort of people I was worried would answer the ad."

Willow glanced back at him. He still had his nose buried in that stupid book—like that thing was going to help.

She looked back out the window, watching the ants scurry about, putting junk into their house—

And there was a little girl dressed in black, taking pictures—

And she got ready to take a picture of the house—

And froze.

Willow blinked as the girl lowered her camera. On a whim, she waved.

The girl waved back.

"Wilson," Willow said, flapping her hand at Wilson. "Wilson, come look at this."

"It's not another one of those ugly art pieces, is it?"

"No, but I think there's a girl down there who can see me."

"What?"

 _That_ got him up. She shifted to the side a bit so he could look out and pointed to the girl.

"So what makes her so special?" Wilson asked.

"I don't know, but I waved and she waved back."

A car pulling up the drive interrupted the conversation. The lady behind the wheel addressed the girl and handed something over.

"I think that's Jane's car," Wilson said.

The girl looked back at the window before dashing into the house.

"I wonder where she's going," Willow muttered.

"No clue," Wilson said, picking that stupid book back up.

Something fell out.

"What's that?" Willow asked.

"I don't know," he said, scooping up the paper and unfolding it.

"'The Magnificent Maxwell,'" Willow read. "Who's that?"

"I don't know," he said again. "'Master of Magic, Sultan of Shadows'—what?" He continued reading. "Need help getting rid of the living? Just tune in for the blueprints to the answer to your prayers: 201.3—that's not a real radio station!" he crumpled it up and flung it away.

"You don't think it's worth a shot?" she asked, pointing after it.

" _No_ , we can handle this ourselves," he said, flipping the book open again.

A few moments later, they heard someone coming up the attic stairs.

"Don't worry, I locked the door," Wilson said.

The doorknob rattled.

"Wilson, what would Jane have handed that girl?" Willow asked.

"I don't know," Wilson said shrugging. "It looked small, so maybe a key— _oh great jumping ions!"_

Wilson bolted for the door, Willow right behind him.

"Why would she just give keys out?" Willow muttered, bracing herself against the door.

"Well, when I see her again I'll ask her—now hold that door shut!"

"Quiet! If she can see us maybe she can hear us!"

"Why couldn't this work in our favor for once?" Wilson muttered.

In response, the radio crackled.

They stared.

"When did you turn that on?" Willow asked.

"I didn't," Wilson said.

It buzzed, like someone was adjusting the dial, then….

 _"Say, pals, you don't look so good!"_

Wilson and Willow exchanged glances. _Huh?_

 _"Say, tired of those pesky living bums encroaching on your personal space?"_

Uh….

 _"Are they making your unlife miserable?"_

Well….

 _"Why don't you get a professional to run them out?"_

"I'm going to turn that thing off," Wilson muttered, trying to reach the knob while holding the door shut.

 _"Right—because you're doing such a great job as is. Hiding up in the attic from a little girl."_

They froze.

The guy in the radio started cackling.

 _"Well, you've got my number! Ta!"_

And then the radio died.

"What was that?" Willow whispered.

Wilson didn't answer—instead, he grabbed the screwdriver next to the radio, kneeled next to the door, and jabbed the screwdriver through the keyhole.

A few breathless moments later, they heard the girl go back down the steps.

"Finally," Wilson breathed.


	5. The Door in the Wall

**Chapter 5, everybody! In which Wilson and Willow visit the Social Security Office….I'm not kidding. I had to go there with Mom a few years back—without a doubt, the only difference between that office and the waiting room in the movie is that I'm reasonably sure no one was dead in there.**

 **We also see a minor reference to one of my other** ** _Don't Starve_** **rewrites….**

 ** _Don't Starve_** **© 2013 Klei Entertainment**

 ** _Beetlejuice_** **© 1988 Tim Burton**

 **"Knock Three Times (On the Ceiling if you Want Me)"** **© 1970 Tony Orlando and Dawn (Willow quotes this song)**

"I like the idea of getting a professional," Willow declared.

"I don't think we ought to."

"Yes we should."

"No, we shouldn't—we can take care of ourselves. Come on," Wilson muttered, flipping through the stupid book again. "Let's see…emergencies…."

"Wilson!" she shrieked. "That thing isn't helping!"

"Here's something! 'Draw a door.' We have chalk up here, right?"

"Wilson, drawing a door isn't going to help—"

"Here we go!" he announced, holding a piece of chalk up. He hastily drew a tall rectangle on the brick wall and stepped back.

Willow allowed for a moment of silence. "See?" she asked.

"Wait, I forgot the doorknob."

"Draw a keyhole and a kickplate while you're at it."

"Ha ha. Okay," he noised, consulting the book again when nothing happened. "Here's something: 'knock three times.'"

"'On the ceiling if you want me….'"

"No, on the door," Wilson said, missing the joke. He rapped on the bricks and stepped back.

Willow allowed for another moment of silence. "I vote we burn that book," she said finally.

Wilson's response was cut off by a sickly green glow.

Impossibly, the chalked door was opening.

Willow finally tore her gaze away from the door to look at Wilson, with the book held tight to his chest. She could practically hear his scientific wiring blowing a fuse.

"Um," he noised finally. "That's…."

She grabbed his arm and dragged him forward; he put the book down on a nearby desk. "Come on," she said. "Let's see what you've done."

* * *

Wendy's eyes widened as a sickly green glow seeped out from under the door.

There really _was_ something creepy going on! She wasn't being silly or seeing stuff that wasn't there! There really was _something!_

She waited until the glow died before trying the key again.

It worked this time.

She opened the door with baited breath….

She felt mild disappointment at the fact that it was pretty ordinary looking.

And then she looked further.

"Woah," she noised.

Right by the door was pretty normal, yes, with a settee and a cathedral radio…but further in, there was a scale model of the town, and beyond that….

A mad scientist's lab.

"Cool," Wendy said, smiling. She headed over to poke around—

When she spotted a book.

" _Handbook for the Recently Deceased_ ," she read.

Oh goodness—this was a dream come true! Verifiable mad scientist ghosts!

But where did they go?

She decided that they must have floated off, unwilling to be viewed by some mere mortal. Well, she'd wait until they came back. Besides, that would kept her out of Delia's hair for a while.

So she went back, shut the door and locked it, and settled into the recliner by the window.

She had some reading she intended to do anyways.

* * *

"Long dark tunnels with a light at the end of them. Not ominous at all."

"Must you play the cynic?" Wilson asked.

"I notice we keep flipping roles," Willow observed. "But I see why you like it—it's fun to be depressing."

"I am _not_ depressing."

"You are."

"I'm not!"

"You _are."_

"I'm—actually, this right here is depressing."

They had reached the light at the end of the tunnel, which had turned out to be a waiting room of some sort.

"Wow," Willow observed. "We died and went to the Social Security office."

Wilson could understand the correlation. The cold seats, the impersonal art, the desk and glass separating the secretary from the rest, the _Now Serving_ sign—all it was really missing was the TV spouting the benefits of Social Security and Medicare. Oh, there it was—it had a boot through it.

He decided there was nothing for it and went up to the secretary. She didn't look up from her book. "Excuse me," he said.

She still ignored him.

He glanced down, noticed a little bell, and tapped it. "Excuse me," he said, when she glanced up. "I'm sorry to interrupt what I am sure is scintillating reading—" he glanced at the cover— _The Great Gatsby._ Well, he wasn't far off. "But could you help us, please?"

"Take a number," she said, waving him off. He noticed dark lines across her wrist.

"Uh, Wilson," Willow noised.

He glanced around, noticed the other occupants of the room for the first time, and how _unhealthy_ they looked—

"Ah….Is taking a number the _only_ option?" he asked.

"What's your hurry?" the secretary asked. "You're dead! You've got time to kill!"

One guy who looked like he had been burnt to death coughed out a laugh.

Wilson saw no humor in the situation.

"I demand to speak to your manager at _once!"_ he demanded.

"Can't," she said. "The last manager got eaten by a depth worm a while back, and we haven't gotten around to replacing him yet."

Wilson tried very hard not to scream. "Then how do you get anything done around here? Never mind—I want to see your superior then. Or did he get eaten as well?"

She actually took the time to look at him. "What do you want?" she sighed.

"I want to speak to someone who knows what they're doing and is willing to help us."

"And if I give you that, will you leave me alone?"

"I might."

"Hey!" some guy rasped—he looked like he had a bone stuck in his throat. "How come _they_ get to go first? I've been here for….Uh…."

"When did you come in?" Wilson asked politely. "Maybe I can bring you up to the superior."

"Nineteen eighty-five."

Oi. "I'll see what I can do."

"Tell them to put a water machine in here too," a mummified person said.

"Okay," the secretary said, hanging up her phone. "Who's your caseworker?"

"We don't know," Willow said. "This is our first time here."

" _Ugh!"_ the secretary noised, flinging her arms up. "You _amateurs!_ You'll burn through all your case minutes, and they're supposed to last you for the next hundred years—I bet you haven't even finished reading your handbook yet!"

"Too late! You said you'd see us in," Wilson interposed. "Or do you want me to give you an unsatisfactory review on the customer service survey?"

"Out! Go! Now! Through that door!" she said quickly, gesturing. "Get out of my sight!"

Wilson grabbed Willow and hustled through the lopsided door—the rest of the listless room had suddenly been galvanized into action by their success, and now they were mobbing the desk.

" _See what you did?"_ the secretary wailed. _"Now I have to work!"_


	6. The Case Worker

**Chapter 6, everybody! In which Wilson and Willow wander Burton-fever-dream halls….The Neitherworld is the name of Beetlejuice's world in the cartoon, for the record. And Willow references the company Two Men and a Truck there near the end. :D**

 **The numbers here are a reference to my longest times in-game: 212 is the longest I've gotten on plain vanilla so far (been afraid to touch it and ruin it), while 484 is my longest on Reign of Giants—unfortunately for that one, I'm afraid my save-scumming has caught up with me. Darn it.**

 ** _Don't Starve_** **© 2013 Klei Entertainment**

 ** _Beetlejuice_** **© 1988 Tim Burton**

"That was _amazing!_ " Willow cheered, bouncing along beside Wilson. "How did you do that?"

"When you have to scrape for patron support like I do, you learn how to get past the secretaries as quickly as possible," Wilson explained. "The really clever ones will try to tie you up in red tape, but that's where skill comes into play."

They entered the next room. "And this must be where the red tape is made," Willow observed.

Desks were scattered about haphazardly, paper stacks stretching towards the vaulted ceilings…and skeletons working at the desks. _Yeek._

"That's death for the dead for you," Willow couldn't help but quip.

"You're not funny, kid," one of the skeletons shot back.

"You must be Case 17-484—the two causing trouble," some guy who looked like he had been run over said—he was hanging on a clothesline. "Take that door over there, follow the hall to your right, and take door 212."

"Uh, thank you?" Wilson said.

"No problem. Hey," the guy said, as they began to walk off. "'Fore you go—there aren't any mirrors on this side. Do I look all right?"

Wilson and Willow exchanged glances. "You look fine?" Willow guessed.

"Great—I've been feeling a little flat!"

The guy laughed as the line wheeled him off.

"You walked right into that," one of the skeletons said, not looking up from picking away at a typewriter. "He pulls that one on everyone who comes through."

"Ah-ha," Wilson said slowly. "Where were we supposed to go again?"

The skeleton pointed, still not looking up. "That way, through the door, take a right, look for door 212. And whatever you do, don't open the Shadow Man's door."

"Do _what?"_

"Get going—you don't want to keep your caseworker waiting."

Wilson exchanged glances with Willow, who shrugged.

"Come on," she said, tugging him forward and eyeing a guy literally hanging on a different line. "Let's go."

* * *

"I always wondered what the inside of a government office looked like."

"I'm fairly certain it didn't look like the inside of a Salvador Dali painting," Wilson observed as they walked down the hall. "What's with these doors? None of them look alike."

"Maybe they go different places," Willow observed.

"That's physically impossible."

"Oh yes—and everything else, that all made perfect sense?"

"What was the door number again?" Wilson asked, pausing to look at a door and opting not to answer her question.

"Two-one-two," Willow recalled, deciding to humor him. "Don't stop there—that door gives me the creeps."

"For good reason," a janitor muttered, not looking up from his mopping. " _That_ door leads to the Shadow Man's lair. You don't want to ever go there."

"Then why have a door here if it's an undesirable location?" Wilson asked, hands in the air. Oh boy—he was getting his sensibilities offended again.

"Boy, that door's been around for as long as anyone can remember. As long as this world persists, the Shadow Man will have a door here, waiting for some unsuspecting, forgetful yutz to open it."

"Aha—see? I told you we were just shifted out of our own world," Wilson said, nodding. "Wait a minute," he said—ah, the insult had caught up with him.

"Door 212 is over there," the janitor said, pointing.

"Hey, it looks like our door," Willow observed. "Come on, gentleman scientist," she chided, grabbing Wilson's arm. "'We don't want to keep our case worker waiting.'"

* * *

"Okay, this is the weirdest one yet."

Wilson was inclined to agree with her—this looked like the set of that Tim Burton film they had watched last year at that film festival—

Wait—the surface was radically different, yes, but the structural lines were familiar….

"Willow," he said slowly. "I think we're home."

Willow's face fell as what he said sank in. "You mean this was our _house?_ How long were we gone?"

"Three months," a voice behind them said, prompting Wilson to leap into the air with a yelp. "I had almost given up on you—I _do_ have other clients."

They turned to see a little old lady—she reminded Wilson of a librarian he had once known. "I…take it you're our caseworker?" Wilson guessed.

The lady nodded. "Mrs. Wickerbottom. And _you two_ ," she said, pointing at them. "Must be Wilson P. Higgsbury and Willow E. Burnshigh. So what's the problem?"

Wilson glanced at Willow before answering. "We're _very_ unhappy—"

"What did you expect? You're dead!" Mrs. Wickerbottom interrupted. "What, did you think you'd get a nice family moving in on your still-warm beds? That's what hauntings are for!" she flapped her arms at them. "The rules on this are very clear and very simple—get them out yourselves!"

"We've tried that—" Willow began.

"I heard. The department hasn't seen an attempt _that_ bad since the Maitland case in eighty-eight."

That reminded him. "Those people in the waiting room—" he began.

"Are kicking up a fuss now, thank you," Mrs. Wickerbottom said, glaring at him over her glasses. Wilson suddenly felt very small.

"So what are we supposed to do with these people?" Willow asked. "It's not like that book is written out clearly—"

"It's supposed to help fill out the next hundred years of your time," Mrs. Wickerbottom said. "We've performed studies, and it helps to keep ghosts from going stir-crazy."

 _"We're not ghosts!"_ Wilson snapped.

"Untethered entities, then," Mrs. Wickerbottom said, waving him off. "Or out-of-phase entities—whatever floats your boat." She pulled out a clipboard and pen from somewhere. "Listen, we _do_ have some beginners classes in the Neitherworld—it'll help get you out of the house and give you some practice. Here's how you get there," she continued, scribbling away. "The classes are run by the Maitlands—lovely couple now that they've settled—"

"What about hiring a professional?" Willow asked.

"Please tell me you haven't gotten missives from a certain beetle-loving Michael-Keaton impersonator."

Wilson was certain that if his face came even remotely close to emoting his confusion, then he must look very comical indeed right now. Willow also looked confused, he was pleased to note. "No," she said slowly.

"Good—he's a troublemaker."

"We've gotten missives from some guy named Maxwell."

"He's a troublemaker too," Mrs. Wickerbottom said. "I remember when he was still living—a big-shot famous magician with his wife as the assistant. Wife dies, he goes into a depression, starts researching all sorts of ways to bring her back."

Wilson and Willow exchanged glances.

"Fails, dies, attracts the ire of the Shadow Man while he's at it," Mrs. Wickerbottom continued. "And now he's trying it on _this_ side. You won't be using his services— _he_ will be using _you._ "

"There's that Shadow Man again," Wilson muttered. "Who is this character? And why give him his own door?"

"Because there's no getting rid of it," Mrs. Wickerbottom said. "You've tried to escape the house, obviously—that realm you ran into is the Shadow Man's domain. He's evil, he's sadistic, and you'd do well to never get caught by him—you'll get dragged into that world, separated, isolated, alone, and with no way out except sacrificing someone else to do so."

Wilson couldn't help but shiver. Willow clutched his arm.

"So!" Mrs. Wickerbottom said, ripping the page off her clipboard and handing it to them. "Take the class, practice, and please, do us all a favor and stay out of the waiting room."

"We can skip that?" Willow asked.

"Draw that symbol on the door and you'll go straight to the class," Mrs. Wickerbottom said, tapping the paper. "Now if you'll excuse me, I have paperwork to do."

And with that, she vanished.

"I always knew life as an office worker would be depressing," Willow declared, as Wilson passed his hand through where Mrs. Wickerbottom had been. How did she _do_ that?

"So!" Willow said, snapping him back to reality. "Do you want to go be sociable? There's a class tomorrow morning at nine."

Wilson grimaced. "I _hate_ being sociable—it gives people false impressions."

"I don't like it either, but it's better than nothing," Willow said, heading for the stairs. "Come on, let's go to bed—and hope that they didn't touch the attic."

"First thing tomorrow, I want to see if we can't fit all this back _out_ the door," Wilson groused, glaring at the ugly furniture.

"You're one man and a truck short."

Wilson snorted. _Think positive,_ he told himself.

Because the other option was to be extremely, _extremely_ depressed.


	7. The Maitlands

**Chapter 7, everybody! In which Wilson and Willow take a spooking class, rearrange furniture, and steal everyone's left shoe….**

 **Watched** ** _Casper_** **with the family the other day—as it turns out, Wilson saying they'd be haunting a pile of rubble has previous merit. And yes, the Ghostbusters** ** _do_** **come that far north. *~***

 ** _Don't Starve_** **© 2013 Klei Entertainment**

 ** _Beetlejuice_** **© 1988 Tim Burton**

 ** _Ghostbusters_** **© 1984 Ivan Reitman**

Mr. and Mrs. Maitland were actually a very nice, down-to-earth couple. Willow wasn't certain what she had been expecting, but it certainly wasn't plaid and paisley.

They were covering basic early haunting for a remarkably small class—Willow supposed there wasn't much of a market right now for spooking. She was busy taking notes, as Wilson was busy sitting next to her and sulking and studiously avoiding looking at the other students—Willow had seen a beaver-man and a spider-boy, among other oddities.

"The big thing you have to remember about haunting is that it's like a big show," Mr. Maitland was saying, pacing back and forth and gesturing like a motivational speaker. "You start out small, then build up to a crescendo, and then have one big final bang to really drive it home.

"So today we're covering phantom movements—if you're anything like we were when we started out, you'll find that very few people can see you initially, so you have to start with what _you_ can do, and that's interact with your house. Turn on the TV or the radio when the undesired occupants aren't in the room…."

"Why did I let you talk me into this?" Willow heard Wilson mutter. She shushed him.

"…Rearrange drawers, move things completely, hide things—like the remote—and make sure to avoid doing this regularly, otherwise they start chalking this up to forgetfulness or something like that," Mr. Maitland said, shrugging.

"The thing you want to remember about the living is that they'll always go for the 'logical explanation' first," Mrs. Maitland put in.

"Exactly," Mr. Maitland said, pointing at her. "So, you can use the phantom movement technique when an undesired occupant is in the room. Start with someone who tends to be in a room by themselves—say, a guy who always brings his work home with him—"

"That Charles Deetz," Willow muttered, scribbling his name next to the notes.

"Start with something small—moving something _just_ out of reach when he's not looking, or a small floorboard creak. Then something bigger—shove some papers off a desk, or something really heavy right behind him. Then, when you've got his attention, move something _very slowly_ right in front of him."

"Laughing in front of him is optional," Mrs. Maitland interposed.

"And very satisfying," Mr. Maitland agreed. "Any questions?"

There were none.

"Well then, thank you for coming, and we'll see you next week!"

* * *

The Maitlands made it a point to come over and say "hi" to their "newest students." Wilson tried very hard not to sigh as Willow engaged in a spirited— _forgive the pun,_ he thought—conversation.

"I can't wait to get home and try some of this," Willow said. "We've got this awful family in our house—"

"We've been there," Mr. Maitland said. "And absolutely no idea how to get them out."

"It's why we started this class," Mrs. Maitland said. "We figured it couldn't be a unique problem."

"And it's better than trying to find a 'professional' to hire—never do that," Mr. Maitland said, shuddering.

Wilson was torn between trying to tune them out and listening to what they had to say. The whole thing just made him extremely uncomfortable—oh goody, they were leaving.

"Hey."

Wilson glanced back at the tap to his arm to see Mrs. Maitland. "I know it's frustrating," she said quietly. "But try to stay positive about it. You let negative emotions get the best of you, and it won't end well."

"What," Wilson noised. "Will they call Ghostbusters?"

"You laugh, but they're real," Mrs. Maitland said, pointing at him. "No, what I'm saying is, you're not tethered by physical limitations anymore—if you're not careful, you won't stay looking like yourself."

Wilson felt his face crumple, echoing his utter confusion.

Before he could ask for clarification, however, Willow tapped him on the shoulder. He followed her out, giving one last confused glance to the Maitlands before they and their classroom disappeared, replaced by the brick wall.

"Mr. Maitland gave me a few more pointers," Willow said, showing her notes. "What about you? What was Mrs. Maitland saying to you?"

What indeed?

"Nothing," Wilson said finally. "Nothing at all—just pleasantries."

Willow shrugged and skipped to the door.

"If you'll excuse me, I have a sock drawer to disarrange," she said. "Care to join me?"

How idiotic.

But right now, he didn't want to be alone—a shiver was working its way up his spine, and he did his best to stifle it.

"Certainly," he said, trailing after her. "And then after that, we can move all the furniture an inch."

"That's the spirit!"

"That's a _terrible_ pun."

"I've got a slew of them. Want to hear?"

 _"No."_

* * *

"I don't think it's working."

"Don't be that way," Willow chided, mismatching another pair of socks. "We've only been at this…how long?"

"A month," Wilson muttered bitterly, tossing a sock underneath the bed.

They had done what they were told, attended classes, and tried the techniques—and nothing was working. These people had to be the most oblivious in all of existence.

Wilson was seriously starting to get depressed.

 _If you're not careful, you won't stay looking like yourself._

What on earth did _that_ mean, anyway?

And if it meant what he thought it did, then why _shouldn't_ they be hiring a professional?

It was something he had been turning over and over in his mind, between classes, their paltry attempts at scaring the Deetzes, and skulking about in the attic. Let the professional be the one to have the negative effects—he'd willingly pay out of his own pocket to avoid any downsides.

Now to convince Willow.

It was easier now, considering that the child was convinced the place was haunted, and yet the parents were not—and that the child didn't show an ounce of fear. _That_ had taken some of the wind out of Willow's sails.

"Maybe we should try sheets," Willow suggested.

"Is that what we've been reduced to?" Wilson asked, shutting the drawer. "Sheets?"

"What?" Willow asked, gesturing to Delia as she entered the room. "Do you want to be eating _breakfast_ with this woman for the next hundred years?"

"She'll be dead by then. And with our luck, still here."

"At least then I'll be able to hit her."

"But she'll be harder to ignore then."

"She's hard to ignore _now_."

Wilson couldn't help but sigh and scratch absently at his forearm. It had been itching a lot lately.

Willow came around behind him and started rubbing his back. Oh wow, that felt _good_. "Between the shoulder blades, if you don't mind," he said.

"No kidding," she replied, kneading. "You're all knotty back here."

Wilson bit back the flip response—it was ungentlemanly at best. Instead, he settled for cracking his knuckles, a habit he had when he was stuck on a problem.

"I suppose we could try the sheets," he sighed finally, watching Delia walk past their seated forms—literally a foot away, and she noticed nothing.

"I knew you'd like it," Willow said triumphantly.


	8. The Sheetzes

**Chapter 8, everybody! In which Wendy references** ** _Lilo and Stitch_** **and Willow references a chunk of the movie's development….Fun story: apparently, the studio producing** ** _Beetlejuice_** **found the name too odd and asked Tim Burton to change it. In response, Tim Burton goes back to them with the suggestion** ** _Scared Sheetless_** **—imagine his horror when they were actually seriously considering it. D: Story goes he threatened to throw himself out the window if they did.**

 **Now, fun story in regards to that name and this story, and why I regret that FanFiction doesn't allow strikethroughs in their formatting:** ** _Six Feet Under_** **didn't come along as a title for a few days, so while I was writing it up, I kept putting down likely names—** ** _Scared Sheetless_** **was a fling of a title that I quickly wrote "lol no" afterwards. :D**

 **Fade from the Light, thanks for the review! Thank you, I'm glad you like it! I've been having a lot of fun with it. :) Glad you like my writing style and how the characters are portrayed, and yes indeed! Tuesdays and Saturdays until further notice. :)**

 ** _Don't Starve_** **© 2013 Klei Entertainment**

 ** _Beetlejuice_** **© 1988 Tim Burton**

 ** _Lilo and Stitch_** **© 2002 Dean DeBlois & Chris Sanders**

Sheets.

Yes, it was cliché.

But it gave her another chance to get back at that red-haired witch.

"Here we go!" Willow declared, finally reemerging from the closet with two sets of sheets.

"Ooh, Egyptian cotton," Wilson said, accepting one. "Very posh."

She knew he was humoring her. Fair enough, at least.

Besides, she wanted to be excited for this.

"Maybe when we're done, we should cut a ton of holes in these," Willow said, brandishing the scissors with a flourish before stabbing holes in the draped fabric. " _That'll_ get their attention!"

"Hmm….They'd probably attribute it to rats, though."

"What makes you so sure?"

"Because they think there's rats in the attic."

"There are—two of them," Willow declared, tossing the sheet on Wilson. It draped comically on him, his spiky hair perfectly outlined—good gravy, she could even see him glare through it. "Don't you look cute."

"'Cute' does not rid us of these people," Wilson muttered.

"But 'cute' lets us do something else with these sheets later," Willow said, stabbing two eyeholes and tossing the sheet over herself before he could see her blush.

It was worth it though, to see him all flustered.

"Now come on," she said. "And remember—'moaning is key.'"

* * *

It didn't go well.

Their first target, Charles—who really should have been properly scared—swung open the door and glared at her.

"Wendy, honey, could you do that later?" he asked—he thought she was his _daughter?_ There was a foot of height difference! "I have Maxie Dean on the phone—my boss?" he swung the door shut, then after a moment, swung it open again. "Your mother's going to have a fit when she sees those sheets."

And with that, he was gone.

"I told you," Wilson said.

"Yeah, yeah," Willow muttered. "We still have two others, though—let's give it a whirl."

Delia was a bust, too—she was sound asleep, and no matter how hard they tried to wake her, she wouldn't. Finally, she _did_ sit up—to turn the TV off.

"Okay, I'm officially bummed," Willow declared, walking out. Wilson followed her.

They were instantly stopped by a blinding flash of light.

" _Ack!"_

 _"Agh!"_

" _Must_ you do your twisted, sick, perverted things while I'm here?" the little girl asked, snapping off photo after photo. "At least shut the door first. I'm a child—I'm impressionable." With that, she picked up one of the photos and walked off. "My blackmail," she declared, waving the photo.

Willow exchanged glances with Wilson, was about to say something, when she heard the girl say something else.

"No feet…."

Oh boy.

The girl was back in front of them. Up close, she was quite pretty, in an eerie way—pale skin, light hair, eyes that had seen too much. Or maybe that was Willow waxing poetic.

"Are you the guys who're hiding up in the attic?" the little girl asked.

 _"We're ghosts!"_ Willow tried, holding the two words in a moan as she waved her arms around.

"Sheets?" the girl asked. "Seriously?"

"I told you," Wilson muttered.

"Can't you at least be a _little_ scared?" Willow asked.

"I'm not afraid of sheets, especially flower-patterned ones," the girl declared. "Hey—are you gross under there? Like _Night of the Living Dead?_ All veins and pus and stuff?"

"Night of the living _what?"_ Wilson asked, appalled, dodging away from her as she tried to peek under his sheet.

"Ew, _gross!"_ Willow declared, pulling her sheet off her head. It was getting hot under there. "What's a girl your age seeing a movie like that for anyway?"

"You're not gross," the girl said, sounding disappointed. "You're just normal-looking."

"Yeah? Well if _I_ had seen a ghost at your age I would have been scared sheetless!"

"What?" Wilson asked flatly.

"I was trying for a pun."

"Great," the girl muttered. "I finally meet ghosts, and they're perfectly normal."

"Wait a minute!" Wilson said, pulling the sheet off his head and leaning in close to the girl, pointing at himself and looking very intense. "You can see us without the sheets?"

"Yes," the girl said slowly, looking intimidated.

"Well how come you can see us when no one else can?"

"Well, I read that book—"

"The _handbook?"_

"Yes—and it said that the living tend to ignore the strange and unusual. I myself am strange and unusual."

Wilson simply stared at her. "You read it and understood it," he said flatly.

"Try not to feel stupid," Willow soothed, patting his back. "You'd have gotten it eventually."

"To be fair, it took me three months," the girl said.

"It's not working," Wilson groused.

"Neither is the scare tactic—what are you doing with our sheets?"

Willow gestured to Delia's room. "We were trying to scare your mother—"

 _"Stepmother_ —and you won't be waking her; she's sleeping with Prince Valium tonight."

"What about your father?"

"He doesn't walk away from real estate—he's busy trying to buy up the town."

"I don't suppose you know a good time when they would be open for scaring."

"Not likely. They're from the city—nothing fazes them."

Wilson flung his hands up in the air, sending the sheet to the ground. "That's it! I give up! I'm done! My goose is cooked! I'm going up to the attic and I'm going to lock myself in!"

"Don't give up yet!" Willow called after him as he tromped up the stairs. "We can call inappropriate numbers and order big things on their credit cards!"

"Why do you want us to leave so badly?" the girl asked, wincing a bit at how hard Wilson slammed the door.

"We were here first," Willow explained. "And the house got sold out from under us. We just want our house back."

"Can't we coexist? Some sort of haunted-rent thing? I mean, you're not the sort of ghosts I was hoping for, but I don't want to go back to some boring un-haunted location."

 _"We're not ghosts!"_ Wilson hollered down.

"Maybe if we got some of our old furniture back," Willow said, thinking. "I'll talk to Wilson if you talk to your parents."

"Is that his name?" the girl asked. "I was expecting something not…as normal."

"Oh, right—my name's Willow. What's yours?"

"Wendy. I had a sister named Abigail."

"Had? What happened?"

Willow was expecting that they had been separated during a divorce.

"It was raining," Wendy said. "And Mom took her for a drive. I was hoping for different ghosts—I wanted to try to contact her."

Willow felt winded. "I'm…I'm sorry."

Wendy shrugged, as though the comment had no effect on her.

"Goodnight," Wendy said, heading back to her room. "And try chipping the china next—Delia loves that ugly stuff."

Willow had absolutely no idea what to say, and therefore simply watched her close the door.

What were they going to do? _They_ weren't going to leave, and she and Wilson _couldn't_ leave….And Wendy didn't want them to leave anyway, because she wanted her sister back.

That poor girl.

Willow sighed, turned and headed back up the steps to the attic.

So much for a productive evening.


	9. The Itch

**Chapter 9, everybody! In which Wilson makes a deal and plays CCR really loudly….The particular song will be revealed next chapter, for those who wonder. And the 'million in small bills' line comes from my Mom. ^^**

 **Cluelesslittlerabbit, thanks for the review! Thank you, glad you like it so far, and the twist as well! There's going to be another twist this chapter as well….I never get tired of follows, faves, and reviews—and I love that you love my writing and some of the parodied stories thus far. :D I shall strive to do my best!**

 **Fade from the Light, thanks for the review! Yes….I loved that part about playing Wendy too—and then Deerclops happened. :\**

 ** _Don't Starve_** **© 2013 Klei Entertainment**

 ** _Beetlejuice_** **© 1988 Tim Burton**

Wilson flipped through the handbook idly, mostly to hear the pages turn. He had his free hand propping his head up, feeling very, very tired.

He glanced over to Willow, who had already fallen asleep on the settee with her bear—he could tell she was stressed too by the way she was curled up facing the back of the settee, so he couldn't see her face. The abject failure of the night must have crushed her.

 _I knew it wouldn't work,_ he thought, scratching at his forearm again. _It was stupid—no, it was beyond stupid—it was ridiculous! It was a huge waste of time—the socks, the classes, the sheets— why is my arm itching like this!?_

He yanked his sleeve up in irritation—

And nearly strangled himself trying to keep his startled yelp in.

His arm—it…it….

He tried picking at it, scraping at it, rubbing it out with alcohol—this was some dirt that had gotten on him when he hadn't noticed, it had to be—

 _If you're not careful, you won't stay looking like yourself._

His forearm was covered in black scratchy lines.

"Come off, _come off_ ," he snarled, scrubbing harder. "Out, d—"

 _"Oh please don't start quoting Macbeth—then you'll get on a roll and talk about floating daggers and find some skull to give the Yorick soliloquy to."_

Wilson nearly leapt out of his skin as the radio cackled.

"You again!" Wilson hissed, glancing at Willow—still asleep. "What do _you_ want?"

 _"A million dollars in small bills would be a good start,"_ the man in the radio said.

"Ha ha. I should see how long it takes for a radio to reach ground level."

 _"I know it's one of the first signs of madness, but don't crack wise—you're not good at it."_

"I'm not going mad!"

 _"You're having a conversation via a cathedral radio. Think about it."_

Wilson did. "Wait—how _are_ you hearing what I'm saying?"

 _"Magic."_ Wilson could just picture the hand motions.

"That's a load of rubbish."

 _"Oh yes, and that's just a skin blemish and they are just people who moved in and decided to pointedly ignore you. The past several months were just a really bad dream—comforting, isn't it?"_

Wilson ground his teeth, fuming—

His forearm started itching again.

"Ow," he muttered, looking down at it again. More prickly black lines were working their way along his arm, he noticed with horror.

 _"Gee, a pity you're getting all worked up over this,"_ the guy in the radio continued. _"Too bad you don't know someone who could get rid of these people for you—get rid of all that stress so you can focus on your original plans."_

"I don't need your help," Wilson snapped.

 _" Right. You just keep on keeping on—turn into your worst nightmare, get carted off….Come to think of it, what would happen to your little friend if you did?"_

Wilson glanced at Willow again, aghast.

 _"All alone in a house with a bunch of snobs, never able to leave, all alone and slowly spiraling downhill,"_ the man in the radio said, a descending whistle accompanying this point. _"All because you couldn't admit when you've been beat. All because you thought you could do it yourself. All because you listened to people who you knew were full of it to begin with."_

 _"Shut up!"_ Wilson choked out, trying very hard not to raise his voice. He reached to turn the radio off, but his forearm started itching like mad again.

 _"Little tip—the more aggravated you get, the worse that will get. And how long do you think you'll be able to hide that, by the way? You think she'll be understanding? Oh, no—angry, upset maybe. She'd never trust you again. The one thing you're terrified of losing—if that doesn't knock you over the edge, I don't know what will."_

Wilson slumped at his desk, cradling his head. "What do you want?" he moaned.

 _"Oh, I thought I told you already—I want to make a deal. Help out my fellow man, and all that bunk."_

"So how do you intend to do that? You think you're coming over here and getting rid of these people?"

 _"Ah, if only it were that simple—I got a limiter put on me like that other fella, Beetlejuice—"_

"'Beetlejuice'?" Wilson repeated flatly. "What kind of a name is—"

 _"Say it again and you'll have more trouble than you're worth. Fact is, I can't get out from my end—I need you to do the heavy lifting to open the portal."_

"And I should because?"

 _"I think you already know the reason—it's sleeping on your settee."_

Wilson looked over, took in every detail of Willow, lying there asleep…he hoped….No, she was—he had been around her long enough to know when she was feigning sleep.

 _"What do you say, pal?"_

Wilson made his decision.

"I…say…." He turned back to the radio. "That you have yourself a deal."

The radio crackled with cackling again.

 _"That's what I like to hear."_

* * *

Delia was not happy.

"Ghosts," she said flatly, chopping up cabbage into atom-sized pieces, as though it was the cabbage that had done her wrong. "Ghosts," she repeated. _"Ghosts!"_

"I think that's been established," Wendy said evenly.

Delia slammed the knife down. "Wendy, I've finally convinced some of my New York friends to come out to this _hole_ , and _now_ you're coming to me with _ghost_ stories!?"

"What about the pictures?"

" _Please!_ You can rig that up with a balloon under the sheets! Which, by the way, are all cut up now, _thank you!"_

"Wow, I'm impressed," Willow muttered. "I didn't think she'd know how to rig something like that up."

Wendy made a face at her before turning back to her stepmother, who had not yet wound down from her rant and was now gesticulating with the knife in her hand.

"Wendy, sweetheart," Delia said, obviously trying to make an effort to calm down. "I know you're into this…stuff…and I'm sure you _want_ the house to be haunted….But stop trashing our belongings and _please_ , when my friends get here, keep this sort of thing to yourself."

And with that, she left the room to check to see if the delivery man had arrived. Again. Willow took some small comfort in the fact that she was obviously going stir-crazy up here.

"I can't believe it," Wendy muttered, flicking one of the pictures away. "Photographic proof, and she didn't believe me."

"To be fair, Ripley's didn't believe Wilson when he sent in a photo of Bigfoot," Willow told her.

"Seriously?"

"Yeah….On closer examination, we figured out it was really this woodsman, Woodie, tromping through the backyard—but to be fair, he looks like a giant beaver in suspenders from a distance."

Wendy was forced to stifle a laugh as her stepmother reentered the room.

"What's so funny?" Delia asked.

"What would you say to giant beavers?" Wendy asked innocently.

" _That_ I might believe," Delia said, pointing a knife at her before dicing another hapless vegetable. "I suppose I should take some small comfort your father didn't decide to have his nervous breakdown relocate him to Florida—the size of the roaches, _ugh!"_

"There's an idea," Willow mused.

Wendy smirked, and opened her mouth to say something—

Loud thumping echoed down from the attic.

Delia blew air out her mouth as she glared at the ceiling.

"What was that?" Wendy asked.

"Pipes," Delia said, slamming the knife back down. "Charles? _Charles!"_ she yelled, leaving the room again. "I thought you called the repairman on that!"

Wendy looked to Willow.

"It's Wilson," Willow supplied. "He's working on some new thing—he won't tell me what it's for, but he won't stop working on whatever it is."

"Does it have anything to do with why a bunch of stuff went missing?" Wendy asked.

"Probably." A particularly loud thump this time. "He was like this when I first met him—locked himself in the attic, made all sorts of noises…I'm surprised he hasn't started up the record player yet."

"What's a record player?" Wendy asked blankly.

Willow was delayed in answering by Delia leading Charles to the stairs.

"I think it's coming from the attic," she told him.

"I called the repairman," Charles told her. "He won't come—he thinks the place is haunted."

"I told you," Wendy called over.

"Wendy, sweetheart," Charles said, coming in and ruffling her hair—Willow could tell it irked her. "We've discussed this—there's no such thing as ghosts. And besides, if there _were_ such a thing, don't you think we'd have seen something by now?"

Wendy pointed at Willow, opened her mouth to speak, but was cut off by the beginning of a CCR riff drifting down from the attic.

Everyone looked up at the ceiling.

"Did you leave the TV on?" Delia asked Charles.

"I don't think so—let me check."

Wendy looked at Willow.

"I'll go talk to him," Willow sighed, heading for the stairs.


	10. The Machine

**Chapter 10, everybody! In which Wilson does the thing he does in the promotional video and thus kicks off the game….The song he's listening to is "Fortunate Son" by Creedence Clearwater Revival—I think I was listening to it when I was writing this, so I just wrote it in. :) Willow's suggestion of the easy-listening muzak, meanwhile, comes from a** ** _Calvin and Hobbes_** **strip where Calvin figures that's the best way to drive his parents nuts. Oh dear….**

 ** _Don't Starve_** **© 2013 Klei Entertainment**

 ** _Beetlejuice_** **© 1988 Tim Burton**

 ** _Emperor's New Groove_** **© 2000 Disney (you'll get it when you get to the line)**

Willow made her way up the stairs as John Fogherty started singing.

 _"Some folks are born, made to raise the flag—ooh, the red, white and blue!"_

She braced herself before opening the door and subjecting herself to the full blast of the speaker hooked up to the player.

"What are you _doing?"_ Willow hollered.

"Isn't it great?" Wilson asked, shoving his swivel chair along with his foot to quickly traverse the attic. "I can't believe I didn't think of this earlier!"

Willow sighed, slammed the door, and crossed over to the record player.

 _"It ain't me,"_ Fogherty sang. _"It ain't me, I ain't no senator's son. It ain't me, it ain't me, I ain't no fortunate—"_

She lifted the needle, cutting the house sharply into blessed silence.

"Do you mind?" Wilson asked, irritated.

"I do," Willow returned. " _Subtle_ , remember?"

"Think about it—phantom music with no source. That _should_ put them on edge, wouldn't you think?"

"I would, but that guy is older than you are—he probably _likes_ Creedence!"

Wilson scowled. "What do you mean, _older than I am?_ "

"What, are you sensitive about your age now?"

Wilson's scowl deepened as he went back to work.

"Besides, if you _really_ want to unnerve them, you don't _blare_ the music," Willow continued, musing. "You play easy-listening muzak and then play it real soft."

"Hmph."

"Are you sulking now?" she asked him.

"Maybe."

"Right," she noised as he sat back to examine his work. "So what is this thing?"

"It's…not finished yet."

"You've been saying that for a week now."

"And I'll change my tune once it's finished."

She sighed as he went back to work.

"So how is your new friend?" Wilson asked, sounding like he was trying for off-handed but failing.

"She's tried talking to her parents, but they don't believe her."

"I'm sure."

"You know, maybe this is _your_ fault." When he looked at her in surprise, she continued. "Maybe you don't _believe_ hard enough."

"Now _you're_ being ridiculous," Wilson muttered, going back to work.

"At least I'm _trying."_

"And I'm sitting up here twiddling my thumbs, is that it?"

"You're becoming a crotchety irritant."

 _That_ made Wilson seize up for some reason—like there was an itch he was trying very hard not to scratch.

And then he sagged and rubbed his face.

"I'm…sorry," he said finally. "It's just…I've been a little…stressed."

She touched his shoulder—wow, he _was_ tense. "So have I," she said. "You don't see _me_ locking myself away though, do you?"

"I haven't been _locking myself away_ ," he replied, back to his usual mildly-irritated self. "I've been working."

"On the mystery thing that you won't say what it is. It's not a bomb, is it?"

"Ha ha, no," he said, picking up a few nearby gears. "I'll be done with it by tonight—you'll see what it is then."

"Hmm," she noised, sitting down next to him. "Can I help?"

He ran his fingers through his hair again. "I suppose so."

Yes! Personal victory!

Even better, this would put a damper on any more CCR riffs.

* * *

"Well….What is it?"

"It's…a…thing."

"You don't know, do you?"

Wilson scratched behind his ear as they examined the device he had crafted. It stretched from floor to ceiling against a wall, and bore a passing resemblance to a face. A lever stuck out next to the mouth.

"Was this in the handbook?" Willow asked.

"That ridiculous thing? No," he said, scratching next to his nose now— _oh please don't start showing there._ "I've given up on that."

"Then—"

Willow was cut off by the radio suddenly crackling and cackling to life.

"That guy again?" Willow asked, looking at the offending device.

 _"Oh that's rich,"_ the radio said. _"Insult the guy who's helping you, why don't you?"_

Willow blinked, then looked to Wilson. "Do _what?"_

"Well," Wilson noised, scratching at his arm out of nervous habit now—being with her had helped somewhat, but her scrutiny now might as well have him breaking out in nervous hives. "I…well…ah, you _did_ say that you liked the idea of hiring a professional…."

She was glaring now.

The radio laughed again. _"This sounds like it's going well. Do me a favor: clear up your little lover's spat before you come see me. The lever activates the door—ta ta!"_

And then the radio went dead.

"Why didn't you tell me?" Willow asked.

Wilson gestured helplessly, trying very hard to ignore that infernal itch again. "I…I don't know, honestly—I think…I think I wasn't thinking, honestly—I want…." He wasn't about to say that. "I want our _house_ back. _Without_ the annoying roommates."

She was still glaring.

"I should have told you," he muttered, scratching at his arm again.

"You should have," she agreed.

"I…I'll just take this down then."

"Don't," she said, catching his wrist. "I…guess we can get this guy to help—I don't have any love for Mr. and Mrs. Yutz. But Wendy's allowed to visit."

"I can live with that," Wilson said, feeling relief flood him, driving that itch away.

"All right then—hold on!"

"Now what?" Wilson asked, pausing in his reach for the lever.

"We have to do this right," Willow said, taking a few steps back and then pointing dramatically, leaning back with her nose in the air. "Wilson—'Pull the lever!'"

Wilson smirked, recognizing the joke from the inane movie they had watched one night.

He seized the lever and yanked down.

Gears ground and groaned….

And then suddenly the "mouth" of the machine slammed open, spitting out shadows that seized them and dragged them in—

" _Wrong lever!"_ Willow had the faculty to say as they scrabbled at the floor—

And then they were falling into darkness—

And then nothing.


	11. The Magnificent Maxwell

**Chapter 11, everyone! In which we officially meet the guy playing Beetlejuice's role and ask the ever-important question—just what** ** _are_** **those pointy shoulders, anyway?**

 **We also reference the title of my _Don't Starve/Great Gatsby_ story, because I'm like that. :)**

 ** _Don't Starve_** **© 2013 Klei Entertainment**

 ** _Beetlejuice_** **© 1988 Tim Burton**

 ** _Zork_ ****© 1977 Infocom (the Grue reference-which is apparently the in-game name file for the Night Monster as well)**

Wilson struggled to wakefulness, groaning as he did so.

"Say, _pal,_ you don't look so good."

Wilson bolted upright—

A puff of smoke dissipated in front of him.

Huh?

He looked around—there was Willow, struggling upright—they were sitting on marble tile, like in that odd social security office—

And around them, darkness.

"Where are we?" Willow asked, looking around.

"I…don't know," Wilson said slowly. What had that machine _done?_

And then a pair of lanterns sprung to life, dark flames guttering. Another pair followed, and another—

"But I know where we're going," he said finally.

* * *

They followed the lights, if they could be called that. They were _weird_ , that's what they were—and they made her brain hurt.

"This isn't going to be like that office thing again, is it?" Willow asked.

"I hope not," Wilson muttered, scratching at his arm again—he was going to render it raw at this rate.

"Stop that," she scolded, grabbing his arm—

He yelped and yanked it away.

"What's _with_ you?" she asked, irritated now.

"I…uh…you scared me," he managed.

She looked around and was forced to admit that this place had that effect.

And they had reached the end of the lights.

"Now what?" she asked.

"I…don't know," Wilson said slowly. "But we are _not_ going into that darkness. We'd likely be eaten by a Grue."

"Nerd."

"Oh _please,_ " someone said before Wilson had a chance to respond. "Do I have to do _everything_ myself?"

And then two sharp claps—

Lights flared around, revealing a round area—

And opposite them, sitting in a huge, spiky-looking black throne, was a man in a suit. Willow couldn't help but shiver at his toothy grin.

" _So,"_ the man in the suit said, revealing himself as radio-guy. "You two are the two dips in the attic. Gotta say, I'm not impressed."

Willow managed to swallow her fear—it had been quickly replaced by indignation. "Why don't you come over here and say that to my face, you…you…."

" _Very_ articulate," the guy observed, lighting a cigar—Willow figured it was the odd lighting that made her miss the lighter. "And why should I?"

"Common courtesy," Wilson managed. "We came all this way—"

"And if I knew you were coming, I'd have baked a cake. Fine then."

The man stood up, struck a sort of ta-da pose—

And then vanished into the ground with a puff of smoke.

"Uh," Wilson noised as they both stared at the ground. "That's…."

"Different?" Willow guessed.

"Glad you approve."

Suddenly the guy was behind them— _good_ _gravy, he was taller than Wilson!_ —wrapping his arms around their necks and pulling them in close.

"Now," the guy said, sending cigar smoke roiling over them. "For this to work I'm going to have to learn all about you two—get _real close_ —" this accompanied by him tightening his grip— _ack!_ "You get what I'm saying?"

"Ulk," Willow managed.

Wilson was a bit more articulate. " _Who do you think you are!?"_ he spluttered.

"Ah, of course," the guy said, letting go and stepping back to strike a pose, hands on his lapels. "I am the _Magnificent_ Maxwell, at your service."

Willow looked the freshly-identified Maxwell up and down, from the combover to the ridiculously pointed shoulders to the suit that—while fine—looked a few shades away from threadbare. And his _face_ —if that grin wasn't bad enough, his eyes were shaded enough that she wasn't sure if he didn't really have yellow irises and black sclera.

In all, _Maxwell_ he may be, but _magnificent_ he was not.

Willow looked at Wilson, who was also scowling. "Please tell me there are _other_ people we can contact."

"What was the name of that other guy?" Wilson mused. "Beetle—"

 _"Hey,"_ Maxwell snarled, crossing his arms and tapping his wingtip shoe. "You haven't even been here for five minutes, and you think you're fit to give _me_ a review?"

"No clue," Willow admitted. "So thrill us: what are your credentials?"

"Well, I attended Julliard," Maxwell said, hands behind his back and adopting a snooty professional air. "I travelled extensively as a magician, so I'm good at misdirection. I lived through the Great Depression and had a time during that. I'm told I have _quite_ the personality….Let's see, what else? Oh, yes— _I'm dead, you wisecrackers!"_

Willow wondered how long they could hold the silence, but decided to break it before Wilson screwed it up. "But can you be _scary?"_

Maxwell looked like he was resisting a face-palm at the moment. "All right," he said finally. "Tell me: what do you think of this?"

Willow didn't know _what_ just happened in front of her, but it was enough to make her and Wilson both scream and grab each other in terror.

"Well, I see _that's_ a hit at least," Maxwell observed, back to normal—which, Willow felt, was extremely subjective at the moment.

"Can you excuse us please?" Willow squeaked. She didn't wait for an answer before dragging Wilson away.

"So what do you think?" she asked when she thought they were out of earshot.

"Epaulettes," Wilson said immediately.

"Do what?"

"Those pointy shoulders."

"I was guessing shoulder pads, personally— _that's not what I mean!"_ she snapped. "I don't think having _him_ in the house is an improvement over the Deetzes!"

"I don't think there's exactly a bustling market for this sort of thing."

Willow made an aggravated noise and stomped in a circle. The small of her back itched.

"If I may interpose in this lover's spat," Maxwell said. "You haven't seen what I can do—at the very least, you'll want a trial period."

"Fine," Willow said, waving him off. "We'll go home and think about it—"

"Perfect!"

And before they could react, they were falling through the floor.


	12. The Song and Dance Routine

**Chapter 12, everybody! In which we—**

 **…**

 ** _DAY-O!_**

 ***ahem* Anyway….**

 **Reference** ** _The Little Mermaid_** **and the** ** _Mask_** **comic "Toys in the Attic" here—looked up the etymological origin of "natch": apparently it's jive slang for "Naturally," and originated in the 1940s. The more you know.**

 **NoUsernamesAreAvailable, thanks for the glowing review! :D Although I wouldn't go** ** _that_** **far….(you make me blush :D).**

 ** _Don't Starve_** **© 2013 Klei Entertainment**

 ** _Beetlejuice_** **© 1988 Tim Burton**

"Oof!"

 _"Oog!"_

They looked around, realized they had landed on Delia's ugly couch in their ravaged living room.

"What just happened?" Wilson asked.

"Let me guess," Maxwell said, sitting in one of the uglier wingbacks. "It was the wallpaper that killed you."

"We're not dead," Wilson said irritably.

"Denial. Classic. Anyway." Maxwell stood up and paced over to some of Delia's so-called 'artwork.' "Ugh— _that_ should be classified deadly right there."

"Okay, _that's_ why we want these people _out_ ," Willow said, standing.

"Their furniture with them," Wilson added, standing as well.

"Sure, sure," Maxwell said, producing a pencil and a notepad and writing on the latter. "Well, this should be entertaining at least—oh, there's that pesky little matter of _payment_."

Wilson had been afraid of that.

"I haven't checked my bank account in a while," he mused.

"That's not exactly spendable for me. How good is this relationship, by the way? I've been needing an assistant."

" _Excuse me?"_ Willow asked.

"On second thought, you're too short. No, I think…let's see, for something like this…."

Wilson had seen this pitch before, by salespeople—whatever this was going to be, it was going to burn. Painfully.

"That copy of the _Handbook_ would do nicely for this, I think," Maxwell finished, pointing his pencil at them.

"The _handbook?_ " Wilson echoed, not comprehending.

"That useless thing?" Willow asked. "You can _have_ it."

"Perfect!" Maxwell chimed, flipping the notebook shut and pocketing it. "They'll be out before you know it."

"Go easy on the girl—we like the girl."

"Yeah yeah, sure sure—"

"Ah," Wilson noised, one hand up. "Before you do—we'd like to try one more time."

"You would?"

"We would?" Willow echoed.

"We would," Wilson confirmed.

Willow snapped her fingers. "The dinner party. If we can't pull it off then, _then_ you can go nuts with these people."

Maxwell was snickering as he rolled his eyes.

" _Sure, pal,"_ he all but sneered. "Go ahead and knock yourselves out. I've been needing a good laugh."

And with that parting shot, he was gone— _poof_ through the floor once again.

Wilson hesitated, then got down on his knees and checked the floor through which Maxwell had vanished. Nothing. It didn't even _sound_ hollow.

"How did he _do_ that?" Wilson wondered aloud.

"Maybe he _is_ magic," Willow said.

" _Please,_ he's no more magic than you or I are."

"Well here's hoping he's scarier than you or I are."

"I think that's been established."

"Then why did you want to give it one more go?"

Good question—he wasn't entirely sure himself.

"I have a better question," Wilson decided to address instead. "Why does he want the handbook?"

"No clue. But it's not like we were getting much use out of it."

"True…."

She sat on the floor next to him. "So," she said, twiddling her fingers. "Any plans for screwing up the Deetzes' dinner party?"

Wilson gave it some thought.

"How do you feel about Harry Belafonte?" he asked finally.

* * *

In Willow's opinion, the dinner party was dead. Dead, dead, deadski.

That distasteful Otho was back again, along with a few other yuppies from the city, who had found Otho's tasteless comment about the attempted suicide of the girl next to him funny, for some reason.

"Why do they want to hang out with these people?" Willow wondered aloud, peering through the window in the door.

"Not a clue," Wilson replied, straightening his vest for what had to be the fiftieth time. "Are you ready?"

She turned to him with a wide grin on her face.

"'I'm _always_ ready to play, natch!'"

* * *

The dinner party had been going just fine, in Delia's opinion.

And then Wendy had to say something.

"I saw some ghosts," Wendy said, in response to a comment by Otho.

Delia's wine very nearly went up her nose. Oh dear, not _now_ ….

"That's a—ahem," she coughed, clearing her throat. "That's just a little joke we share. Old houses and weird noises and all that."

"But there _are_ ghosts," Wendy insisted. "A man and a woman."

"Wendy…."

"No, no, I want to hear this," Otho said. "Do go on, dear."

" _No_ ," Delia insisted. "I'd much rather talk about—"

Everyone stared as she suddenly cut off.

She couldn't explain it—it felt like someone had clapped their hands on her mouth—

And then she wished that someone _had_.

Because right now she was bursting into a perfect rendition of Harry Belafonte's _Banana Boat Song_ —she felt marginally better when Charles decided to join in, but then how could she explain the rest of them dancing? At least Otho seemed to be enjoying himself—and Wendy; she was standing behind her chair and laughing.

But Delia was seriously starting to panic—it felt like someone had grabbed her and was twirling her around to the music, making her dance against her will—and then shoving her abruptly into her chair as the song neared its end—

And then the shrimp cocktails attacked.

* * *

Wilson and Willow ran back to their attic, cheering in triumph.

They had done it! They had actually done it!

Willow kept repeating that fact over and over again, jumping on Wilson and hugging him once they reached the attic. He heartily returned the sentiment—it felt good to hug her; it drove that blasted itch away.

"That was _great!"_ Willow exclaimed once they parted. "We should _totally_ do that again!"

Totally. He caught her by the elbows as she spun around, sharing her manic grin. "Let's watch them scatter!" he suggested.

"Yeah!" Willow agreed, and together they bolted for the front window.

Wilson couldn't help but elicit an excited _hee_ noise as they looked out on the driveway. "Any second now they'll be scattering like the roaches they are!" he exclaimed.

One minute.

Then two.

"Any second now," he repeated, with less conviction.

A knock at the attic door prompted them to turn sharply around.

"Hi, it's me," they heard Wendy call.

Confused, they exchanged glances, then crossed over to let Wendy in.

She looked distinctly unhappy as she stepped in.

"They want you to come down," she sighed. "Delia says you can wear whatever sheets you want."


	13. The Flop, or, Maxwell's Turn

**Unlucky Chapter 13, everyone! In which Maxwell takes a shot and we find out what Mrs. Maitland meant back in Chapter 7….Sorry about missing Saturday, but life has been hectic. D:**

 ** _Don't Starve_** **© 2013 Klei Entertainment**

 ** _Beetlejuice_** **© 1988 Tim Burton**

Wendy trudged back down the steps to the adults whooping and laughing wildly, still excited over what had happened.

It was their own fault, Wendy reflected. No one was scared of a haunting when it was done to the tune of Harry Belafonte. She personally would have gone for something much more horrifying—like a broken music box. The shrimp cocktail bit had been a nice touch, though.

Her father, standing by the stairwell, spotted her first. Delia, who had been watching the stairwell, spotted her next.

"Well?" Delia asked, gasping for breath and wiping a tear away.

"They won't come down," Wendy sighed. "I think they're upset because you're not scared."

At least, that was how she had left them. _Now_ she could hear Wilson ranting angrily and pacing the attic—she had a feeling the thing had been _his_ idea.

"They're dead," Delia said. "It's a little late for them to be self-conscious."

Wendy shrugged, unsure as how to progress.

"They're in the attic, correct?" Otho asked. "Then let's go see them."

There was a round of agreement from the adults. Wendy did her level best to bar their way.

"I don't think that's a good idea," she told them.

"Dear," Delia said, firmly putting her aside. "If there's one thing in this life I need to teach you, it's that you can't let anyone push you around."

Wendy felt as though that was a message with a double standard there.

"Now come on!" Delia said, leading the charge. "Let's go drag those ghosts down here by the ropes they hanged themselves with!"

"They didn't hang themselves!" Wendy called, following with no small amount of trepidation.

But when they arrived at the attic, it was to find it abandoned.

"Wow," Charles noised, kneeling in front of the town. "This is incredible! Look at this!"

Some of the other adults, however, were too focused on a large machine that resembled a face or a door. "What is this supposed to be?" Delia's agent asked.

Delia, meanwhile, had turned to Wendy. "Well?" she asked. "Where are they?"

Wendy decided then and there that the best approach would be to play dumb. "Who?"

"The ghosts you were talking about! The man and the woman!"

"I thought I wasn't supposed to entertain my childish game when company was around."

Wendy was severely worried she'd ruin the whole game by smiling then and there, but managed to stay straight-faced as a dejected Delia tried to chase down her uptown friends.

"Delia," her agent said finally at the foot of the stairs. "You're a flake. You've always been a flake. If you insist on scaring people, do it with your art."

Ouch. Just, ouch—even Delia didn't deserve a slam like that.

"We'll show ourselves out," her agent said. Silence reigned for a few moments.

Wendy turned to her father, spotted Otho pocketing something—wait, what?

But Delia was already stomping back up the steps.

"Charles!" she snapped, causing him to jump as she reached for Wendy and dragged her away. "We're leaving. We're leaving!" she added, much louder—probably for Willow and Wilson's benefit.

Where _were_ they, anyway?

* * *

To answer that question, hanging by a tenuous grip from the sill.

"I still say under the settee would have been better," Willow hissed. "I think I'm losing the feeling in my fingers."

"In retrospect, we probably should have expected them to come up looking for us," Wilson groused, sounding gravelly in his irritation.

"Yeah—because they weren't about to just brush it all off as bad shrimp."

"Or weird artwork."

She had to stifle a laugh at that. They heard Delia loudly announce their departure, and then silence.

"Do you think they're really gone, or are they playing us?" Willow asked.

"I'm not rightly sure if I care anymore," Wilson said, sounding far past peeved.

"Oh, they're gone all right—real gone!"

They looked up in alarm at the new voice—Maxwell was sticking head and pointy shoulders out the window, giving them a little finger wave as he grinned around one of his noxious cigars.

"Oooh, that was _real_ scary!" he continued, holding the cigar so he could tap some ash on them. "Just about right for amateur hour—now why don't we turn on the juice and see what shakes loose?"

And with that, he was gone.

Willow looked to Wilson, who was vaguely undefined in the dark. "I don't like the sound of that," she stated.

Wilson was already hauling himself up as fast as he could.

* * *

Ah, bliss. He hadn't done this in _ages_ —and it most definitely showed, he felt, considering ideas were chasing each other around in his head as he shadow-travelled down the stairwell and into the hall where the yuppies were.

But as he neared, it all cleared into a general idea of what he wanted to do. He was a stage magician in a previous life—if there was one thing he was good at, it was putting on a show.

"—Never so humiliated in my life," the redhead was saying. "Otho, can't you _do_ something?"

"Maybe," the tub o' lard said. "If I had the proper motivation."

Ah _ha_ —Maxwell knew a stage cue when he heard one.

Quick as a wink, he sent a pair of shadow hands snaking along the floor to trip up both men of the party. While they were distracted, Maxwell rose out of the ground in front of the redhead in the guise of what he liked to call a Terrorbeak—slim except for the sizeable maw—and roared in her face.

She reacted appropriately, and before anyone could recover, a shadow tentacle whipped around sandy-hair's leg and hoisted him up as Maxwell popped out of yet another shadow on the ground, looking much like he did normally, but in a scratchy shadow quality with luminous eyes and a distorted mouth.

 _"We've come for your daughter, Chuck,"_ he sneered, before flinging the horrified man away. Cue transformation into a dragon, snapping his long whip-like tail into tubby and sending him rolling down the stairs—let's see, who else needed some?

Oh, that's right—the little girl.

He turned, snarling savagely as he reared up, with the intention of perhaps morphing into a huge hound—nice big bad wolf reference there—when he spotted the flower in her hair.

Wait a minute—he knew that sort of flower.

Before he could do anything more though, two voices loudly screamed _"NO!"_ —

And something collided with him, sending him over the railing and towards the ground floor.

Maxwell was a lot cannier than that, though, and rather than take the fall, shifted into smoke so he could snake around to whoever's back and drive them in the rest of the way. It didn't matter if the impact could kill him or not—that sort of thing _hurt_ , and it was the fastest way to tick him off.

Collision, roll away—let's see, dragon form from earlier would be a good one; not many people stayed calm when facing down something like that—

And then he got a good look at his recovering attacker, and decided that sort of point might very well be moot.

"Say pal, that itch need scratching?" he taunted.

His attacker hissed and lunged.

Maxwell quickly leaped up, causing the mook to ruin what might have been a very nice china cabinet in a previous life, shifting into something lighter and more agile as he slammed down on his spine—

Wings snapped up to pin him, and as he tumbled to the floor, four hands launched forward to throttle him.

He quickly merged into the shadows and shot away.

He knew a losing fight when he saw one.

* * *

 _"NO!"_

That had been Willow and Wilson's reaction upon making it down the steps and spotting the resulting carnage, seeing Maxwell loom over Wendy—

Willow was frantically trying to figure out how to call him off when something big and black collided with him, sending both over the railing.

She blinked, stunned, turned to ask Wilson if he saw that—

He wasn't there.

"Say pal, that itch need scratching?"

She ran over to the railing, looked down—

To see something black and spider-like fighting whatever it was Maxwell was right now.

And then Maxwell dove through the shadows and vanished, leaving the thing scrabbling away searching for him. What in the world?

" _Why are you doing this!?"_

That anguished scream prompted Willow to turn around—Wendy was clearly having a breakdown of some sort, mouth open in a wail as tears ran down her face.

It was especially jarring when Willow realized this was really the first time she had seen Wendy exhibit any emotion.

 _"Go away!"_ Wendy wailed, scrabbling for the door and finally getting it open enough to flee inside. _"Go away! Leave me alone!"_

"Wendy, wait!" Willow started, but quickly abbreviated the statement when the door slammed shut. Oh boy, this wasn't good—this wasn't good at _all_.

An unearthly shriek told her that there were more pressing matters to deal with—like whatever that _thing_ was.

She ran down the stairs, jumped over Otho, rounded the railing—

 _"Hey!"_ she yelled.

In retrospect, that wasn't her smartest move—especially when the thing rounded on her with a scream and she could see that it was much bigger than her, with four spindly arms and a scratchy black consistency—

And _very_ distinctive hair.

"You've got to be kidding me," Willow muttered, which very quickly switched to an aborted curse when it charged her.

"Wilson, stop!" she yelled, backing up quickly, arms out to fend him off—no dice, backed against the wall, hands batting frantically and shoved against his face to keep that angry maw away—was he even in there? _"Wilson, stop! Stop! Wilson!"_

The blackness that was coating him had a horrible itchy consistency to it, and she had the horrible feeling that she was about to find out what it was like to die a second time—

And then he stopped.

She opened her eyes, realized they were moist, saw the angry looking white disks that were substituting for his eyes suddenly widen in horror—

And then he was scrambling away, backwards at first before finally turning around to flee properly—

 _"Wilson! Wait!"_ she yelled, chasing after him and slipping on the black stuff he was shedding, finally catching up to him at the door. He was lunging for the handle, finally looking somewhat normal—she lunged, caught him by the waistcoat—

And then she felt as though she were sucked into the void.


	14. The Aftermath

**Chapter 14, everybody! Sorry for the delay—been on vacation and Internet was questionable. So we'll probably have this update every day to make the Halloween deadline I wanted. Dang it.**

 **DrunkenDuncan, thanks for the review! I'm glad you like it so far—I love the movie too. :D Hopefully I'll continue to please! :D**

 _ **Don't Starve**_ **© 2013 Klei Entertainment**

 _ **Beetlejuice**_ **© 1988 Tim Burton**

 _ **Ghostbusters**_ **© 1984 Ivan Reitman**

Reflecting back on it later, Wilson was fairly certain that any and all mental reasoning had flown into the void upon transformation, his intense dislike for Maxwell devolving into mindless anger that overwhelmed everything else and fed on his frustrations over the past several months.

It was horrifying.

Especially when he came to and realized what he had very nearly _done._

Willow….

Oh no….

 _It was all over._

And thus, he did the only applicable thing: he ran.

He had no idea as to _where_ —right now all he was thinking about was getting as far away from that debacle as possible—

But Willow was pursuing—

And as she caught up to him and snagged his waistcoat, he reached the doorknob—

And then a horrible hooked feeling, like a fish on a line, as the world swirled and blacked out around him—

It resolved into a sickly-green-tinged office as his forward momentum slammed him into the door, Willow slamming into him a split-second later.

Just _where_ they were was quickly resolved.

 _"YOU! SIT!"_ Mrs. Wickerbottom bellowed, pointing at them and looking absolutely apoplectic. Wilson supposed the unhealthy looking literal circus surrounding her desk didn't help. _"The rest of you! Out!"_

"Ringmaster-lady!" the strongman asked. "When do we eat?"

"I'm not your ringmaster! He survived," Mrs. Wickerbottom snapped. "Now get out!"

They did so, allowing her to turn her full unfiltered ire on Wilson and Willow.

"I—you—I can't _believe_ you!" she stormed finally.

"Those guys looked like they were in a train wreck," Willow observed meekly; Wilson's heart wrenched sideways at the sound of her voice.

"A train wreck is mild compared to you two. Congratulations: you've actually done _worse_ than the Maitlands! Summoning Maxwell without putting him back, letting Otho get the handbook—"

"Wait, what?"

 _"Never trust the living!_ And you," she added, pointing at Wilson. "A Shadow Monster. Congratulations."

Wilson would like nothing better than to sink through the floor right then.

He shuffled quickly when he stared at the top of his shoes and realized he was doing just that.

"You," Mrs. Wickerbottom said, pointing at Willow. "Get back there and get that handbook—we can't have that sort of thing falling into the wrong hands. You stay there," she added when Wilson made to move. He watched as she pressed a button on the intercom. "Get me Containment Control."

"What's that?" Willow asked.

Mrs. Wickerbottom shooed her out. "Never you mind—get that handbook, and get it now!"

With that, she slammed the door on Willow, turning to face Wilson.

"That's not good, is it," Wilson said hollowly. It wasn't a question.

"We don't need a routine haunting like yours turning into a hostile situation that would attract the Shadow Man," Mrs. Wickerbottom said, adjusting her glasses. "I'm sorry, but you'll have to be removed from the situation. Containment Control will escort you to the Shadow Man's domain."

No.

Nononono _nonono_ —

He felt like all of his internal organs fell out of his body, leaving an icy void. _No._ No, not that—

He'd never get to apologize to Willow.

He'd be leaving her alone in that _house—_

And then the circus came back in.

"Miss ringmaster lady?" the strongman said. "Silent friend says we didn't survive crash."

"How'd you guess?" Mrs. Wickerbottom asked sarcastically.

The strongman was quickly shoved aside by what looked like a Viking lady.

"I refuse to believe this travesty is Valhalla!" she bellowed, waving an axe around. "Feel my might, Fury!"

As the axe buried itself in Mrs. Wickerbottom's desk, the door Wilson was leaning against opened—he fell backwards—

And was seized and pulled away.

 _No! No! I—_

He spun around frantically—

Willow grabbed his arm and pulled.

"Come on then!" she scolded. " _RUN!"_

* * *

Charles and Delia sat on their patio, reflecting on their awful night.

"My agent won't answer my calls," Delia said finally.

"I wonder why," Charles said blandly.

"I think it was the shrimp."

"Probably."

"They nearly killed you."

"I know."

They sighed.

"Do you think the Ghostbusters come this far out?" Delia asked.

"I wonder how much they charge," Charles mused.

"And here I thought this place would be boring."

"And it had such curb appeal too."

Long silence.

Delia practically heard the lightbulb when it went off.

"You know," Charles mused. "A lot of people would actually go for the experience we had."

"You're not serious."

"I am! Why do you think horror shows are so popular, or why Sleepy Hollow gets such tourism—people are attracted to this sort of thing!" he was rubbing his chin now, considering. "Think about it—I pitch this to Maxie Dean, Shanter gets repurposed….We'd have the whole setup: gift shops, ghost tours—"

"Shrimp," Delia said.

"Yes…."

"Except if Maxie Dean is how I think he is, he'll want proof."

"Maybe we could serve shrimp again."

Delia reflected on that night and quickly repressed a shudder. Ugh, if she didn't think about that dinner, it'd be all too soon—

Wait….

"I think Otho said something about knowing about the paranormal," she said.

"The interior decorator?" Charles asked. "The guy who couldn't use a perfectly good door?"

"That's the one. I think I'll give him a call."

"You do that, dear."

* * *

Wendy, meanwhile, was despondent in her room.

So much for her ghosts. She hadn't gotten a wink of sleep over the past several days. Every creak set her on edge, and the ghosts' absence only made it worse.

She missed Abigail.

That was the whole sum and scope of it—half of her had been ripped away, and she had started getting into ghosts as a way to research a means to get her back.

Except she had now become disillusioned with ghosts in particular and the paranormal as a whole.

She sat at her dresser, watching herself in the mirror as she silently rubbed the makeup from her eyes, plaited her hair, and nestled her flower in her hair above her ear.

The flower that matched her sister's.

And then she pulled a pen and paper over.


	15. The Closet Confession

**Chapter 15, everybody! In which Wilson and Willow have a heart-to-heart and run into a very familiar ghost….We also reference the original** ** _Casper_** **movie, and the TV show** ** _Dharma and Greg_** **—it happens. :)**

 ** _Don't Starve_** **© 2013 Klei Entertainment**

 ** _Beetlejuice_** **© 1988 Tim Burton**

 ** _Casper_** **© 1995 Brad Silberling**

 ** _Dharma and Greg_** **© 1997 Dottie Dartland & Chuck Lorre**

 _ **The Muppet Movie**_ **© 1979 James Frawley & Jim Henson (you'll get it in a minute)**

They were still running down the Dalí halls, Willow dragging Wilson along as they heard angry exclamations behind them.

"Quick!" Willow yelled, spotting a fork up ahead—and a literal fork, weirdly enough. "Which way!"

"I don't know!" Wilson yelped. "Uh, right! Go right!"

She did so, glancing back to see how close they were, put on the speed—

And slammed into someone who smelled like mold and several other unpleasant things, knocking her back and into Wilson. Her quickly-formed apology died upon spotting the guy's unhealthy pallor and taste for monochromatic stripes.

"Hey, watch where you're going!" the guy snapped.

"Sorry—people chasing us—" Willow began.

"Woah—say no more." The guy opened a door and shoved them in. "Quick—hide in here."

He shut the door, plunging them into darkness. Through the thick wood, she could hear him say, nonchalantly, "Hey, how ya doin'?"

" _You!"_ someone squawked. "What are _you_ doing here? Get him!"

Willow waited until she couldn't hear rapid footsteps before feeling around for a doorknob or a light switch. Upon kicking something metallic and hollow, it finally occurred to her to feel up in search of a light string. She found one and tugged.

Her eyebrows furrowed upon their location's illumination. "We're in a closet," she said finally and flatly. "A _broom_ closet." She looked down to see what she had kicked—a bucket. She didn't know whether to laugh or cry.

She instead opted for looking at Wilson, who was very studiously looking at the top of his shoes and not at her. He looked like all the energy had been sucked out of him, and was just waiting for the killing blow.

"What happened?" Willow asked. When he didn't answer, she continued. "Back at the house. What happened? Why did Mrs. Wickerbottom want you gone? Wilson? Wilson, are you in there? _Hey!"_ she slapped him in the chest. "I'm talking to you! _Answer me already!"_

Wilson flinched under her hit but didn't say anything.

"Don't do this to me," Willow ordered, eyes burning and the small of her back itching. "You're not allowed to just shut down like this on me. We're in this together, right? You can't just _bail_ on me now!"

He was doing what she liked to call finger isometrics now: grabbing each individual finger and rolling it around in a circle. It was one reason why his hands were so limber, and under normal circumstances, it would have made her smirk. As it was, she slapped his hand irritably.

 _"Look at me already!"_ she yelled.

He did so finally, revealing a hunted and horrified and upset expression—

What made her stomach flip-flop, however, was the fact that his sclera were black and his irises were white. _That_ wasn't normal.

"Start talking to me," she ordered. "What happened, and why did it happen?"

He was staring at a corner next to him, wringing his hands and shrugging his shoulders, mouth open but no sound coming out.

"Start talking, or I start force-feeding you that mop," Willow said.

And so he did.

She listened as he went through the whole thing from the moment it started going south, to that odd itch and the revelation and Mrs. Maitland and Maxwell….

By the time he had finished, he had slid down the side of the closet and was a crumpled heap on the floor, knees pulled up and hands cradling his head.

Willow, meanwhile, felt like someone had scooped her innards out.

"Why didn't you _tell_ me?" she asked.

Wilson said something unintelligible due to the muted volume.

"What?" she asked.

"I didn't want to lose you," he mumbled, still not looking up.

She still felt hollow inside as she slid down her own wall and sat opposite to him.

"Then _why_ didn't you _tell_ me?" she asked again, as evenly as she could muster.

"I thought," Wilson began, swallowed, continued. "I thought—I—I don't know anymore."

She was almost certain she could see some more of what made Wilson Wilson seep out, and she was fairly certain the shadows on his side looked weird. "You thought I'd hate you," she said.

"Yes," he said, barely audible.

"You're right. I do hate you."

His expression when he looked up was one of pained alarm—

Which switched to just pained when she bopped him on the forehead.

"I hate you for not thinking and I hate you for not _telling_ me!" she exclaimed. "You should have told me from the beginning! What, did you think I couldn't handle this sort of thing? I can't when you let it build up and then dump it all on me! What's _wrong_ with you?"

He was scrunched up in a corner again, and it occurred to her that she had done just what he had feared.

Which, she supposed, was why he had kept it to himself.

She took a few calming breaths, closed her eyes for a moment.

And then, ignoring the flinch when she touched his shoulder, pulled him into a hug.

"I hate what you did," she decided to clarify. "I don't hate you. You're my best friend—I love you."

"What?" Wilson asked, flat surprised.

Oh wow, did she really just say that? "You know, in the friend way," she said quickly.

She could actually _feel_ the tension leave his body, and eventually he snaked his arms around her and returned the hug.

"I'm sorry," he said thickly into her shoulder. "I'm an idiot—I'm such an idiot."

"You are," she agreed, ignoring the mental image of the seersucker guy from earlier sticking his head in and telling them to _get a room._ Which made her think….

"Hey," she asked jokingly, sure that this was the way to get a laugh out of him. "You ever do it in a closet before?"

"Do what?" he asked sincerely.

"Never mind," she sighed, finally pulling away and watching him as he rubbed his face—his eyes were back to normal, she noted. "You think those goons chasing us are gone?"

"One can only hope," he said, running his fingers through his hair and heaving a sigh—well, at least he was starting to sound like his old self again.

She nodded and stood. "Come on then—let's go home."


	16. The Door-to-Door Dodge

**Chapter 16, everyone! In which Wilson comes out of the closet, relatives converse, _Shipwrecked_ is mentioned, and Wilson and Willow have a run of Pixar references….**

 **Blowing smoke out the nose is a staple of someone who actually smokes instead of show-smoking, according to my Mom, and it's a tidbit that's stuck with me, oddly enough (seeing as how no one smokes in our family); hence Maxwell doing it.**

 _ **Don't Starve**_ **© 2013 Klei Entertainment**

 _ **Beetlejuice**_ **© 1988 Tim Burton**

 ** _1984_** **© 1949 George Orwell**

 ** _The Incredible Adventures of Van Helsing_** **© 2013 NeocoreGames**

 ** _Monsters, Inc._** **© 2001 Pixar**

 ** _Finding Nemo_** **© 2003 Pixar**

 **"Going up the Country"** **© 1968 Canned Heat**

They stuck their head out of the closet and glanced around.

"I don't see anyone," Wilson observed.

"Good," Willow said. "I'd hate for anyone to see us coming out of the closet."

"There's an innuendo there—I can sense it."

"I always knew you dressed too nice."

"Ha ha, you're a riot." Wilson poked her in the back. "Come on then—let's get out of here."

They ran down a hall, turned, ran down another hall, looking for the door that looked like theirs.

"Maybe they replaced it," Willow said after the fifth or so hall. "How long do you think we've been gone? It could have been a _year_ since we were there!"

"I sincerely hope not," Wilson said, turning about in place. "What was the number? Two-one-two? We just look for that."

"Room One-oh-one," Willow read off of a doorjamb.

"I read that book—we don't want that room."

"What's in it?"

"'The worst thing in the world,'" Wilson quoted, tugging her away.

 _"Halt!"_

They turned to see mechanical guardsmen round a corner.

 _"Surrender now—resistance is futile,"_ the guardsmen ordered in tandem as they approached.

"Would that be in that room?" Willow asked.

"Probably," Wilson observed. "Now _run!"_

* * *

Wendy knocked on the attic door before entering. "Hello?" she called. "Wilson? Willow?"

She had hoped that Wilson wouldn't answer, but that Willow would—she had gotten over her desire to see unnatural ghosts.

Except no one was there.

She frowned, wondering if perhaps they had decided to hide in another room, when someone said "They're gone, kid."

She jumped and spun around. "Gone? Gone where?" she asked on impulse.

"Gone up the country," the mystery man said—she spotted the newspaper and the man behind it in the recliner just as he flicked the paper down to look at her. "What do you think?"

She thought that maybe she didn't want to be alone in a room with this guy—or alone in a house, for that matter. He was tall, skinny, and sallow-faced, and the cigar clenched between his teeth didn't help appearances. His expression was terrifying too—closed right now, but calculating.

Black eyes with yellow irises didn't help, either.

"Who are you?" she asked. "What are you doing here?"

He rolled his eyes and folded the newspaper up neatly. "I'm holding this chair down—very important job, can't have them running off on their own."

She waited, but he didn't offer his name. "Where are Willow and Wilson?"

"I told you—gone." The man tapped some ash off the end of his cigar. "They're off on an extended trip to the Social Security office, or something closely approximating it. They won't be back."

Again, a long pause. "At all?" she asked finally.

"Not if those bureaucrats can help it."

She waited, but not as long—she got the feeling this guy wasn't the sort to go for idle chit-chat. "Can I see them?"

"How's that?"

"I want to get to where they are," she said evenly.

The guy spread his hands in a questioning gesture, the emotion matched on his face. "Why?"

"Because," she said simply. She wasn't about to explain her motivations to a guy she didn't know. And she most certainly wasn't going to start trembling in the long silence that followed. No….

He took a drag on his cigar and blew the smoke out through his nose, eyeing her—like he was sizing up a steak to determine if it was medium or well-done.

"I…might be able to help there," he said finally. "Of course, you know that doesn't come free."

"Nothing ever does," she replied coolly.

He grinned, a toothy one that showed his teeth. "I like your style, kid—let's talk."

* * *

Okay, as it turned out, ducking into different doors to evade their pursuers wasn't the smartest idea.

Although, Wilson had to admit, the one bamboo door they ran through was pretty nice.

"Look at this," Willow had complained, upon taking stock of their tropical surroundings. "Why couldn't we have died _here?"_

"We're not dead," Wilson said automatically.

Several bipedal boars spotted them—the air was suddenly filled with their angry bellowing.

"Now we might be," Wilson moaned.

They ran back through the door, ducked into another one—

And ended up in a pitch-black room.

"This isn't an improvement," Wilson said flatly.

"No it isn't," Willow agreed. "Now where's that doorknob—hey, look at that."

There was a light, glowing a pale blue off in the distance.

"Let's go to it," she said, dragging Wilson along.

"Willow, no," Wilson protested. "Going to lights at the end of long tunnels isn't—"

And then they found themselves much closer to the light than he had initially supposed, like the distance had been truncated somehow.

"Ooh," Willow noised.

"Yes," Wilson agreed.

"It's so… _pretty._ "

"It makes me feel…happy," Wilson sighed. "Which is a really big deal for me right now…."

"I want to touch it," Willow declared, reaching up—the light jiggled out of her reach. "Hey, get back here!"

Wilson was into it too now, trying to grab at the light with a smile on his face.

"I'm gonna getcha!" Willow cheered, hopping up to grab it and missing.

"I wanna be with you," Wilson couldn't help but sing. "I wanna be your best…friend…."

He had made the mistake of turning around.

Because turning around revealed that the light was at the end of a long lure that arched into the skull of a big, massive, ugly worm with no eyes and razor-sharp teeth. A sharp inhale told him that Willow had seen it too.

"Good feeling's gone," Wilson declared.

And then they were running and screaming again, trying frantically to find the door in the pitch black, the only light the madly swinging lure of the worm—

They ran right by it.

"Door!" Wilson yelled. "Cut left! Quick!"

They did so—the worm blew right by them, surprisingly fast for something with no feet.

"Left again!" Wilson yelped, grabbing Willow's arm—at least, he hoped it was Willow. "Willow, this is you, right?"

"No," Willow's voice came, sarcastically. "This is your conscience—we haven't talked for a while, how've you been?"

"Har har—it's coming back!"

They tore off again, missing the door once more as the worm chased them, just barely dodging out of the way and causing it to miss once again.

"This is ridiculous!" Willow squawked. "We're playing a game of Snake in the dark! How are we supposed to find the door _now?"_

He didn't know—he didn't have the first clue, and they were going to _die_ if—

 _A Shadow Monster. Congratulations._

That—he—

Sinking into the floor—

What if….

He was trembling, that horrid rumble filling the air as the lure circled back—focus—think—there had to be a way to work that in his favor—how had he done it last time?

"Wilson!" Willow yelped. "It's coming back!"

Willow.

He couldn't let anything happen to Willow.

He closed his eyes—pointless in the dark, but it gave him some illusion of focus—dredged up all those feelings that had been simmering all this time, frustration, anger, indignation…the fierce urge to protect and defend….

His arm itched.

He opened his eyes—

It was still dark, but there was depth to the shadows now—a grayscale infrared view.

And there was the door.

"This way," he said, tugging on Willow. "And hurry!"

"How is heading for the monster improving things?" Willow squawked, tugging back.

"Because that's where the door is! Now come on before it catches us!"

More resistance—and then she suddenly relented and ran along with him.

"If you're wrong, I'm going to kill you," Willow snarled.

Wilson couldn't help but smile at that. "Somehow, I don't doubt that."

And then it was focus—focus on running for the door as that horrid light got closer and closer—running on an intersecting course with the monster, but they were almost there—

"Wilson!"

He lunged, fingertips brushing the doorknob—


	17. The Attic Confession

**Chapter 17, everybody, and happy Mischief Night! I know my computer has certainly been causing me mischief—first my Cintiq refuses to work, and then the documents I've been working on the past couple of days on my thumb drive all corrupted. Fortunately, I have backup copies, but it does mean I lost about a dozen pages if I can't get them back. T-T**

 ** _Don't Starve_** **© 2013 Klei Entertainment**

 ** _Beetlejuice_** **© 1988 Tim Burton**

 ** _Fresh Prince of Bel-Air_** **© 1990 Susan Borowitz & Andy Borowitz (Maxwell channels Uncle Phil there a little)**

 ** _The Outer Limits_** **© 1963 Leslie Stevens**

 ** _The Twilight Zone_** **© 1959 Rod Serling**

 ** _Ghostbusters_** **© 1984 Ivan Reitman**

"So let me see if I have this correct," Wendy said, eyeing the man evenly as he sedately paced back and forth. "You get my flower and the handbook, and I get to see my sister."

"Ding ding ding! Tell her what she's won!" the guy crowed, flopping back into the armchair and propping his feet up onto the horrid orange ottoman. "One free trip to see her erstwhile sister. And all you trade off are two useless items."

"I wouldn't call them useless," Wendy protested.

"Please," the guy said, dragging on the cigar. "Flowers like that come a dime a dozen, and that handbook reads like stereo instructions. And besides, why hang on to a memento of your sister when giving it up takes you to see her? Seems pointless to me."

This—this _guy…_ had a point, actually.

"All right," she said, carefully detaching the flower from her hair and holding it out.

The guy gave it a cursory glance, one that she found she recognized—from of all places, her dead mother: he wanted it terribly, but didn't want to seem too eager. "And the handbook?"

"Up here somewhere," she said, shrugging—and gently tightening her grip on her flower.

"Uh-huh—no. I've already looked around up here: the handbook isn't here."

"Maybe they hid it," Wendy said, shrugging again as she pulled her hands back—no reason to part with her flower any sooner than she had to. "Unless—" that moment—when she had thought that Otho pocketed something—"Oh no, he took it."

"What?" the guy asked flatly, leaning forward in his seat and eyeing her.

"I—uh, can't…get you the handbook right this minute," she said. "But—give me a day or two, all right?"

"Uh-huh. Right. _Do I look like the perfect picture of patience to you!?"_ the guy thundered, suddenly on his feet and looming. "I don't care _how_ that stupid thing reads—you don't just _misplace_ something like that! It's not in the house, is it? And it's not the sort of thing you loan…."

Wendy had backed up several steps, was now frantically trying to back up to the door as the guy resumed pacing, looking angrily thoughtful—he had lost control of the situation and knew it. Now he was trying to figure out how to get what he wanted without bothering with the diplomacy.

" _A day or two_ ," he spat, still pacing. "If it's in the house, you would have ran and gotten it. Those _kooks_ didn't have time to take it—and you'd have stolen it from your parents…." The guy rounded on her suddenly. "That fat tub of lard— _he_ took it, didn't he? _Well!?"_

Wendy gaped, quaking against the wall—

When something clicked.

"Wait," she said, voice returning to its usual even keel. "How do you know about Otho? I haven't seen you around, and Wilson and Willow never mentioned you…."

"'Otho'? What kind of stupid name is—"

"It was _you. You_ were the dragon last night, and those weird shadow things—you attacked me! You attacked my parents! You could have killed my father last night!"

"So what?" the guy asked, waving her off. "You're obsessed with dead people, remember? Seeing as how it's two deadbeats that take up most of your time nowadays."

"And how would you know that?" she hissed. "H-have you been _spying_ on me?"

The grin he gave her was awful—a decided _got you pinned_ look that would have fit well on a predator. "I don't _have_ to, _pal_ —it's as plain as the look on your face. And coming up _here,_ looking for those two? When they were the ones to ask me to do all that in the _first_ place?"

She didn't know what was worse—that he copped to it without any show of remorse, or that Wilson and Willow had _asked_ him to do that…."You liar."

"Oh really? You think I'd be caught dead in this dump otherwise? They've really let the place go."

There was a moment—he sounded like Wilson and Willow complaining about the house—"Do Wilson and Willow know you plan to steal the house out from under them?"

The laugh the guy gave had no mirth. "Oh, aren't you _cute_. That, my dear little _pal_ , is what we in the business like to call a stupid question. And what do you care what I do with them? I have the thing _you_ want most—the way to see your sister again. Tell me, what's more important than _that?_ Two ghosts who were planning to stab you in the back while grinning to your face? With friends like _those…."_

She hated the fact that he made sense—if Wilson and Willow were planning on doing that…they had said point-blank they wanted her family out of the house….And that—that _thing_ Wilson had turned into….

"So what's it going to be, _pal_ —play ball with me, or take your chances with people you know lie to your face?"

Wendy didn't—she didn't—

And then the sound of a door being banged violently open—

 _"NO!"_

Willow and Wilson were suddenly there, Willow moving to put herself bodily between Wendy and the guy, Wilson diving right for him—

And then the guy was gone. _Poof_ , gone.

Wilson, unfortunately, had absolutely committed to the charge, and ended up slamming into the far wall, bouncing off and crashing to the floor flat on his back before it registered.

"Are you okay?" Willow was asking, checking Wendy over frantically. "He didn't hurt you, did he—"

 _"You lied to me!"_ Wendy finally managed, the accusation coming out in a choking sob. "He said you hired him to get rid of us— _he nearly killed my dad!"_

Willow at least had the decency to look apologetic at that. "We—that was before, and…and things got out of hand—"

 _"Getting out of hand shouldn't involve murder!"_

 _"We didn't want you dead!"_ Willow yelled back, finally losing her composure. " _We just wanted our house back! Was that such a horrible thing to want?"_

 _"Yes!"_

There was a moment—they both stepped back, Willow with a hand on her hip and to her face, Wendy trying to breathe evenly and failing. This was…she was….

"I'm sorry."

Wendy blinked at the sudden statement from Willow.

"I—we—I wasn't thinking," Willow said, gesturing helplessly, expression saying she didn't like the feeling. "It was just—everything was happening at once, and we never had the opportunity to come to grips with anything, and…I'm sorry." Here Willow's hands fell to her sides and her head drooped, before she tried offering a weak, watery smile. "But…if it makes you feel any better…we've gotten it over it, and…we can try the co-ownership thing."

Wendy sniffed, rubbed at her nose. "Huh?"

"No more scaring your parents, no more Maxwell, no more spooky stuff," Willow clarified. "But can you at _least_ get them to bring _some_ of our old furniture back? No offense, but your stepmother's taste in furniture is terrible."

Wendy coughed out a laugh, wiping at her eyes now. "Yeah. I'll try."

Willow smiled—

Noticed the piece of paper she was holding.

"What's this?" Willow asked, gently pulling it out of Wendy's grasp before she could react. Read it through….

And then giving Wendy a look—somewhere in the region of sad and sympathetic. "Wendy," she said slowly. "That wasn't the answer."

Wendy nodded, throat still hurting. "I thought…." She didn't know _what_ she thought.

Willow hugged her—for a ghost, she had a very warm hug.

"Yeah, well, take it from me, being a ghost sucks," Willow said. "Oh wait, that's right—we're not dead. Right Wilson? Wilson?" She kicked Wilson's shoulder lightly. "Wilson, are you still with us?"

Wilson, meanwhile, had not moved from his fetal position, flat on his back, legs pulled up, hands plastered to his face. "I think I broke my face," he muttered. "My _whole_ face. And I _liked_ my face."

"Yes, it was a very good one," Willow agreed, prompting a weak laugh out of Wendy. "Now stop whining and help me out here—I need help with the comforting adult thing."

"I will as soon as my head stops throbbing."

"Fair enough," Willow said, patting Wendy on the head. "Feeling better?"

"A little," Wendy said. "Not much, but a little."

"I think that's one of those things where you have to take what you can get." Wendy nodded, leaning heavily against Willow.

"You know," she observed. "For ghosts, you're awfully solid."

"We're not ghosts," Wilson insisted, freeing one hand to gesticulate. "We're—we're untethered entities, yanked sideways through our dimension so we're slightly out of phase, or—or _Twilight Zone_ victims, or guest stars on _The Outer Limits_ …."

"To be fair, that theme song has been playing prominently in my mind as of late," Willow said, before directing her attention back to Wendy and jostling her shoulder a little. "So what do you say? Want to tell your folks that they can eat shrimp again?"

Wendy laughed—

And then they all started at the sound of footsteps and conversation on the attic steps. Wilson sat bolt upright—

"That's Dad," Wendy said. "And—and I don't know who else. I don't know the voices."

"Let's not," Wilson said, quickly ushering them away to hide behind the giant wood and metal machine. "Our luck, the Ghostbusters really _do_ come this far north."

"I thought you said we weren't ghosts," Willow countered primly.

"We're not, but those proton packs would hurt anyway."

"Let's be honest—if the Ghostbusters _did_ come through there, you'd completely geek out on them."

"I would," Wilson admitted, before cutting off sharply at the door opening. Wendy peeked—her dad, yes, followed by a couple of the dinner guests from before, and—

Otho.

"So how are we supposed to get this down?" one guy asked, examining Wilson's handmade town.

"We break it apart," her dad said, pointing. "See where it splits? Now—that's right, you grab that end—"

They watched in silence as the men left, absconding with the town.

"What was that all about?" Willow asked.

"They stole my town," Wilson said weakly, staring at the now-empty spot where it had stood.

"I—I don't know," Wendy said. "But—I think Otho stole the handbook the other night."

"So?" Willow asked, before grimacing. "Oh yeah—we have to get it back under pain of the Social Security Office."

"They _stole_ my _town,"_ Wilson repeated, gesturing weakly at the empty spot.

"Yes, Wilson, we know—we watched them do it. What they want with it is anyone's guess."

"It is," Wendy said, feeling some of her old resolve coming back. "But we can find out soon enough. I'll be back."


	18. The Summoning

**Chapter 18, everybody, and happy Halloween! :D**

 **I love how I timed this so it'd be done on Halloween, spent two years planning that, and yet I still miss my self-imposed deadline. Ah well, the best laid plans….So we'll be back to our Tuesday-Saturday posts this week. Drat it all. But on the positive side, I was able to recover my files, so success. :D**

 _ **Don't Starve**_ **© 2013 Klei Entertainment**

 _ **Beetlejuice**_ **© 1988 Tim Burton**

Wendy came down to a whirlwind of adults.

In reality, it was less than half a dozen, but the way her dad was flying around, all his old vim and vigor back as he dashed between a corkboard and the model town as he explained things to the others—he was over his nervous breakdown, obviously.

And as she listened, it became clear what he was planning.

"We can set up the paranormal museum here, in the old hardware store—and Raid is _dying_ to sponsor the insect zoo here—and then the ghost tours and the bed and breakfasts—we can't lose!"

"Dad," Wendy tried timidly.

"Ah, there you are," her dad said, quickly coming over to collect her. "You're going to be thrilled with this—we're about to make your ghost friends gainfully employed."

"Uh…."

"This is all well and dandy," a man said—Wendy finally recognized him from dinner parties she had despised: Maxie Dean. "But what about the _ghosts?"_

"Well, that's where Wendy comes in!" her dad said, practically bursting with glee. "So what do you think, Wendy? How about our friends meet your friends?"

Wendy hesitated—this wasn't—if Wilson and Willow heard about _this_ …she could kiss those earlier promises goodbye. Wilson, at the very least, would blow every gasket he possessed.

And after seeing the end result of that, Wendy was open to avoiding that as much as possible.

"They, uh, left," Wendy said.

" _Left?"_ Delia echoed.

"Uh, yeah—they…wanted some time off, but they said that if you stop overreacting and trying to get them to do silly things and bring some furniture of theirs back, they'd consider coming back."

"What's wrong with the furniture?" Delia asked, eyeing the pieces she had picked out herself.

"We're not sponsoring this if there's nothing to sponsor," Maxie Dean said, prompting Wendy's father to stiffen next to her. This was a big deal, a really _big_ deal for him….

"Dad, remember the dragon," she hissed under her breath, which caused him to twitch and put a hand to the back of his head as he winced—he remembered. "A repeat of that would be a _very bad thing."_

Maxie Dean was glaring now, prompting her father to squirm—her reminder had snuffed out all his energy for the idea. Delia, unfortunately, leaped to his rescue.

"That's all right, we're not relying solely on her," Delia said, flapping her hand a little. "We have…Otho."

Wendy followed Delia's glance—Otho was sitting at the partition, reading…

The handbook.

Oh no.

"Otho, are they still here?" Delia asked.

"Oh, they're here all right," Otho said in his slow, unctuous voice. "They're just hiding—probably because of what they did to me."

"Yeah, sorry they didn't kill you," Wendy muttered under her breath, earning her a light tap from her father.

"So you can make them show up, correct?" Delia asked, eyeing the room with an appraising eye.

"I most certainly can and will," Otho said, shutting something he had been perusing with a thump—

Wendy started with surprise as she recognized the book he had closed—she had been right, up there in the attic.

Otho had taken the handbook.

"No!" she yelped, starting forward—her dad tightened his grip on her in surprise, like the mention of the dragon had made him suddenly worried about her safety—

And then Wendy relaxed as she remembered that this was _Otho_ they were talking about.

"Oh what am I worried about?" she asked. "Otho, you can't even change a tire."

Maxie Dean barked out a laugh at that, prompting a glare from Otho, who gathered up the book and his writing pad as he obviously tried to reassert his position of power.

"We're going to be needing something of theirs," Otho told Delia primly, pointedly not looking at Wendy.

"You'll have to go to the Goodwill," Wendy muttered.

That had occurred to Delia too, who glanced at the model town like it would help somehow, tapping her fingers together nervously as she looked at Charles.

"The attic, maybe," she said. "Or—didn't you shove a bunch of that old stuff in the closet of your office?"

Wendy's dad waved his free hand slightly, like he was racking his brain too—

She didn't like the way he stiffened, like something had just occurred to him.

"Dad," she started—

Too late.

"That first day," he said, pointing at Delia. "When I was in my office—there was a box that got knocked out of my hand—hold on."

He was gone, scrambling for his office—Wendy ran after him, hoping against all hope that she'd be able to talk him out of whatever it was he was planning—

She found him in his office, on his hands and knees, reaching underneath a cabinet and feeling around…making a triumphant noise and pulling out a little dusty box.

"What is it, Charles?" Delia asked, alerting Wendy to the fact that she was looking over her shoulder.

In response, her dad opened the box, revealing a little ring.

"I thought so," he said, getting up and fishing in the box. "And if I'm right…yes! His and hers engagement rings. Will this work?"

"Perfectly," Otho said—oh great, he was here too now. "Hand them over Charles, and we can get started in the dining room."

"Dad, please, no," Wendy begged, causing him to pause in the act of handing the ring box over. "Please don't do this."

Her father hesitated briefly at the tone of her voice—

And in that time, Delia had taken the box from him and handed it to Otho.

"Perfect," Otho said. "Now let's get started."

* * *

Wendy watched with absolute trepidation as Otho started the ritual, holding hands with the other adults and chanting. The rings started glowing, yes….

But Wendy had read the handbook, had understood it…this wasn't a summoning that Otho was doing.

 _Oh please, please let it not work._

* * *

"It's been a while—you think we should do something?"

"I don't hear anything," Wilson said, ear to the door.

"Try over here—we'd be right over the—"

"Right over the what?" Wilson asked, looking over at Willow—

To see that she was see-through, silent, and fading fast.

"Willow?" he asked nervously, before bolting for her as she vanished. _"Willow!"_

Slam into the floor—

She was gone.

No. Nonononono—

The itch was back, and in that moment he was all for letting it go—he had to find her—had to get her back—

But when he reached for the doorknob, he phased right through it.

He stared, tried again, tried to comment—but no sound came out, and he was soon gone—

…And when he came to, it was to find himself in invisible binds, so tight he couldn't breathe, floating over the Deetzes' horrid dining-room table, everything tinted with green light, people watching as he tried and failed to squirm out of his bonds—

And then soundlessly gasping in shock at the sight of Willow floating next to him, looking less like Willow and more like a mummy wearing her clothes.

She smiled sadly—he tried to reach for her, straining long fingers—

Stopping when he caught a flash of light on one of his fingers.

The engagement rings—the ones he had bought a lifetime ago, that he was going to propose to Willow with—

…That he had knocked from Charles' grasp and never retrieved….

Oh. Oh _no…._

* * *

Wendy watched with growing horror, tried several times to get them to stop—

But no adult would listen, and now Otho was trying to stop the ritual, but he had botched it, and soon Willow and Wilson would be….

She needed help. She needed _someone_ who could stop this—

She ran for the model town, looked around—nothing here. Look around—

Run up the steps and for the attic for all she was worth.

"I accept your deal!" she blurted as she banged into the room. "I accept! Just rescue Willow and Wilson too!"

Nothing doing—don't tell her he left—maybe the lever on that machine—

And then the radio crackled to life.

 _"I'm sorry, you're wanting me to do what now?"_ the guy from earlier drawled.

She ran to the radio. "I'll give you the flower, and I can get the handbook—it's right in the dining room," she said, hands on either side of the old cathedral radio. "Just—Willow and Wilson are in trouble, _big_ trouble, and I…they… _we_ need help."

Long silence—she could sense that he was having to think on this—or maybe he was stringing her along for dramatic effect. Either way.

 _"You're tacking things on, little girl,"_ he said finally, sounding dangerous. _"You can't get more for the same price—you're going to have to up the ante."_

She had been afraid of that. "I don't have anything else to offer."

 _"Hmm…well, there is one thing that you can give…."_

"What, my life?"

 _"Hah—I don't have any need for that. No, what you have that I want is real, solid, and made out of brick and mortar. Give me that, and I help you out."_

"What is it?"

 _"I already told you, and if you're begging for help because of what I think you are, you don't have time to dawdle. Going once, going twice—"_

 _"Fine!"_ she yelped. "Sold! Now help them out!"

 _"Right,"_ he snarled, drawing the word out. _"Go over to that machine and pull the lever."_

She looked at it, the mad-scientist machine. "I…."

 _"Tick-tock tick-tock, the Higgsburys are on the clock—"_

She bolted forward, ran up and jumped for the lever, catching it and using her weight to pull it down—

The front of the machine slammed open, like a gaping maw leading to an abyss—

And then the man from before stepped out, dapper and thin, decked out in a three-piece suit with pointy shoulders and a flower tucked into the lapel.

She tried very, very hard not to regret the decisions leading up to this when he spotted her—having fallen from the lever and landing with a pained _oufh!_ —and grinned, an action that didn't fully reach his eyes.

"It's showtime."


	19. The Undoing

**Chapter** **19, everybody! Yes, it's finally back and updated, although there will be some delay in getting the final chapters out—writing motivation has been entirely elsewhere, and then real-life obligations got in the way. Not that writing is not a real-life obligation, but….Just know that I am 100% frustrated with myself for not getting this done when I said I would, and that I never abandon a story that I publish—it may take me ages to get back to it (fell off of this site for so long that my doc manager emptied, and that** _ **never**_ **happens), but I'll get back to it or be dead and cremated, mark my words.**

 **Fyoucapslock, thanks for the review! I loved those movies too, so I can understand that completely (I always thought Marty was cute too :D). I did have several good holidays, and I think the number of reviews prepares me for pitching my work (the trick is to find the people the story resonates with). Maxwell's confrontation with Otho in this chapter runs very much like it does in the movie, but rest assured there will be a much more complex confrontation soon(ish). Thank you, and I hope you had some pleasant holidays as well! :)**

 **Sergeant Spectre, thanks for the review! Dangit, you're right—I suppose we can argue the scene in the closet, but that is a point that bothers me. *shrugs***

 _ **Don't Starve**_ **© 2013 Klei Entertainment**

 _ **Beetlejuice**_ **© 1988 Tim Burton**

 ** _Pirates of the Caribbean_ ****© 2003 Gore Verbinski (Max paraphrases Captain Jack Sparrow here)**

Whatever they were doing, Wilson hoped it would be over soon.

He had done the thrashing and flailing, trying to dredge up that itch again and get them _out_ of this—whatever it was—but there was nothing doing, and he was quickly losing any and all energy he had….

 _Well,_ he decided finally, as his vision started to go black. _At least we don't have to worry about sharing the house anymore…._

Footsteps, upstairs—Wendy had run up there, probably didn't want to see this—

But the footsteps rapidly coming back down were too heavy to belong to a little girl.

And then, through the haze, he saw Maxwell run down the steps, vault the railing to land in the living room, and come hastening up in a showman's pose.

"Gentlemen, remain calm!" Maxwell bellowed, grinning. "We are taking over this operation!"

Everyone turned to stare at him.

"And who is this?" one guy who acted like he was in charge asked.

Maxwell gave an aggravated _what can you do_ gesture. "Oh I see, you're from the city—you don't _impress_ easy. Well then."

And then Maxwell jumped back onto the table the model town was on—Wilson had a moment to think _oh please don't step on that—_

Okay, it was hard to tell because of how blurry his vision had gotten, but he would have sworn that Maxwell was wearing a seersucker outfit now. And had a cane.

"Attention K-Mart shoppers! Step right up folks! See the gen-u- _ine_ article! Winter River's very own ghost with the most! Come on a little closer!"

Okay, the good news was, they were leaving Wilson and Willow alone. The bad news was, that wasting feeling wasn't going away. And Maxwell was still there, and that wasn't good at all—

"You know, I feel real good about myself right now," Maxwell was telling the now-attentive yuppies, swinging the cane around and posing with it. "Doing a good deed, helping my fellow man, giving you the shaft, all that jazz. Hated people like you while I was living. Which, for the record, makes this _extra_ sweet."

And with that, he jumped off the table, hit the floor—

And in doing so, used several floorboards to launch the yuppies into oblivion.

Wilson stared in disbelief, would have sagged if it weren't for the fact that his neck made a horrendous cracking noise when he did—better not. And the fact that that made no sense was because his eyesight was going that was it—

Otho was trying to scurry away.

Wilson tried again—without Otho focusing on them, maybe he could break out of it—

Maxwell jumped on Otho from behind— _somehow_ —before he could get too far.

"Ah-ah-ah, fat boy! You and I? We're going to have some laughs," Maxwell snarled, before morphing into a shadow-version of himself and laughing maniacally. Otho, understandably, panicked and ran.

"Otho!" Delia said, her and Charles clinging to each other tightly with Wendy sandwiched between them now. Otho stopped—

Maxwell pointed a finger gun at him, made a little _pow_ noise—

And Otho's outfit ripped off, revealing a pastel suit beneath that somehow horrified the man more than anything else—he ran out into the night screaming.

And then Maxwell was hopping back in front of the town, coming to a halt and back in his old outfit as he turned to face the Deetzes.

"And that, ladies and gentlemen, is why I won't do two shows a night anymore. I just won't," he said, waving his cigar around before popping it back in his mouth. Wilson watched worriedly as he turned and started pacing, ticking things off on his fingers.

"Well let's see, took care of the yuppies, the tub of lard—oh," he noised, spotting Wilson and Willow. "I uh, think the Higgsburys have had enough exercise for one night," he said, rocking back on his heels before imitating a golf swing—Wilson didn't even have time to even _try_ to correct him before they went crashing down to the table. Painfully.

"Ow," Wilson muttered.

"So. Took care of them, took care of the other guys—I guess our business is concluded," Maxwell said, clapping his hands before spreading them. "So now I guess it's just the little matter of payment."

Payment?

Charles, to his credit, stepped in front of his family, one shaking hand pointing at Maxwell. "Now see here, you—you spook—"

"Ooh, such verbal repartee," Maxwell sneered in his face, right there and blowing smoke at him—Charles fell back with a cough. "But last I checked, I didn't do any dealing with _you_."

And with that, he reached around Charles, aiming for Wendy.

"No—" Wilson started—his jaw fell off.

But then Maxwell was stepping back, and the only thing he had in his hand was Wendy's flower. Wilson stared at the oddity, hardly aware of Willow trying to reattach his jaw or the horror involved there.

"That's one," Maxwell said, before waving his free hand—something zoomed over Wilson's head, brushing his hair as it snapped into Maxwell's grasp. The handbook.

"That's two," Maxwell continued, flipping through the book before ripping out several pages and tossing it away—he pulled out a larger, darker book from his suit _that shouldn't even fit how_ — _"_ And now for the third and final part of the trick: _getting you lot out of my house."_

Do what?

"Th—this isn't your house," Charles tried.

"Oh yes it is."

"No it isn't," Willow croaked—of course, _she_ waited before trying to talk.

"Oh brother," Maxwell sighed, ambling over to lean down and sneer at them. "Don't tell me your boyfriend never told you, during the _whole time_ you were living here, that _the house was haunted."_

"Listen," Charles tried. "I don't— _we_ own this house now, not you!"

"We owned it first," Willow shot. Definitely feeling better.

"Oh, you'll find I have seniority over the both of you," Maxwell crowed, straightening up. "But all that's a moot point, seeing as how the deed's been handed off—and by the way, I've had enough of your mouth."

And with that, Maxwell spun his hand around—

And some of Delia's hideous art sculptures came to life, crawled over and grabbed both Delia and Charles, leaving just Wendy there, alone and trembling as Maxwell stalked over to her, every step measured. Wilson tried to get up—ended up falling onto the floor. Still not recovered enough from…whatever that was.

"Thank you," Maxwell said silkily, voice dripping with the irony of the situation. "So _very_ much, for agreeing to something without reading the fine print. But—I'm a man of my word. You're off to see your sister."

"You lying snake!" Willow yelled.

"Excuse me!" Maxwell said, spinning to face her. " _I_ have never lied to anyone in this house," he said, stalking over to her and wagging a finger. " _You two_ wanted _them_ out of the house. _She_ wanted to see her sister. Well guess what? I'm granting all those requests—it just involves getting rid of _all_ of you in one fell swoop. Should be enough that that goon out there doesn't complain about the trade-off."

"What—what are you talking about?" Wilson gasped out—at least his jaw didn't fall off and that had happened ew.

Instead of answering, Maxwell lifted up the flower, half-turning to regard Wendy.

"Lovely little thing," he said. "Family heirloom, I suppose?"

"It was my mother's," Wendy said, voice hollow.

"How quaint. It was my wife's first."

And then the answer hit Wilson like a ton of bricks.

Maxwell was going to trade them off to get his wife back.


End file.
